The Verge War
by CharNobyl
Summary: The war between the Batarian Hegemony and the Global Defense Initiative marks the first formal war against a galactic power for humankind, but the Hegemony is a far different force than the pirates it funded. Followup to "Eagle's Fall," in "Renegade" AU.
1. Chapter 1

**After a bit of delay, here's my followup to _Eagle's Fall_ and second contribution to the _Renegade-_universe detailing the events of the GDI/Batarian Hegemony conflict: _The Verge War_. As I said at the start of _Eagle's Fall_, if you haven't read _Renegade _already, now's the time to do it. It's in the same place you found this, and there aren't many stories in the ME/C&C section to sift through. Similarly, if you haven't read _Eagle's Fall_, you may do well to read the first chapter for the timeline. **

**But without further ado, here's chapter one of _The Verge War._**

* * *

**November, 2176**

**The Citadel**

**Serpent Nebula**

"_So you'll do nothing, then? How typical._"

"Mind your tone, ambassador," Councilor Tevos said coldly, "The Council is taking your accusations seriously, and we have already sent aid workers to assist Elysium's recovery."

"_We can rebuild a colony, councilor, but neither of us can bring back the dead,_" the hologram of Ambassador Donnel Udina may have been flickering, but the anger on the ambassador's face was clear, "_What we want is action against the people _behind_ the attack._"

"Your Commando decimated the attackers, yes? Rescued those who had been abducted?" the clipped voice of Valern interrupted before his asari or turian counterparts could, "Then you can expect no more trouble from them."

"_Don't act like you don't know what I mean_," Udina shot back, "_The Batarian Hegemony has been providing-_"

"-nothing that can be proven with the 'evidence' you've offered so far," the turian councilor, Sparatus, finished the sentence, "You knew the risks of colonizing on the border of lawless space, and pirates don't need much prompting to attack vulnerable worlds." The emphasis on 'vulnerable' was obvious, and Udina's jaw visibly clenched at the goad.

"Ambassador, the Hegemony has already requested that the Verge be made an area of batarian interest, a request which we _denied_," Tevos stated, "But tread carefully. Aggressive action against them will be viewed as thus by _all_ Citadel races. Do we understand one another?"

"_Perfectly_," Udina said carefully, "_I withdraw my petition for Council investigation._"

The hologram flickered out before any of the Councilors could reply. All three knew the traditional mentality of the GDI, and now, it was just a matter of the scale on which it was applied.

As the adage went, 'If you want something done right, do it yourself.'

* * *

**2177, three months later  
**

**Unregistered lunar colony: Torfan**

**Skyllian Verge**

Sardo Jarok blinked both sets of eyes in an effort to clear the haze left over them after a night of heavy drinking. He hated having to wake up this early, but his omni-tool was flashing urgently, and he had a job to do. Being the de facto overseer of Torfan had its advantages (the high quality of last night's ale, for one thing), but he needed to keep up with the duties that such a position entailed.

"Alright, I'm up, damnit," he blearily entered several commands into his omni-tool to open a comm channel before pulling on his boots, "What's going on?"

"_We're getting a bunch of eezo energy signatures on the scope_," a gruff reply came through the omni-tool's communicator, "_They're big, too._"

"Hang on," Jarok forced himself to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, "I'll be up there in a minute."

"_Sure thing, boss_."

It took a few minutes to reach the sensor array, most of which was spent waiting in a lift to deposit him on the proper level, then moving to the next set of lifts. Nothing on Torfan's main complex could be reached from a single elevator, to both the chagrin of its inhabitants and potential invaders alike. Before arriving, he scrolled through what documents and transmissions he had on his omni-tool, trying to pick out what it might be that had roused him from his sleep at this unholy hour.

The doors to the control room slid open, and Jarok's sensitive eyes were thankful for the general darkness, save for the light of the various screens and consoles. One of the men looked over his shoulder as Jarok approached.

"Sorry to wake you like this, boss," he apologized preemptively, trying to lessen Jarok's wrath should the alert turn out to be nothing, "We just don't have anything this big coming in today."

"We're supposed to get a shipment from BSA," Jarok offered, "It could just be them." Batarian State Arms was another reminder of the Hegemony's untrusting nature: they refused to let private companies produce their weapons, armor, and other tools of war, but ended up creating a single corrupt and wasteful supplier.

"They're not due for another three days," the technician shook his head, "And even then, they're not putting out the usual signal." He inwardly cursed himself for contradicting Jarok, but he had a strange sense of unease over this alert that was overriding his better instincts.

"Fine, then wait until we can actually see them," Jarok snapped, "And get a raiding party on standby. They're probably just a idiots who don't realize how close-"

"They're hailing us," the technician interrupted. Jarok made quiet note to come up with a particularly grueling punishment for the offense, looked up at the newly-lit screen.

"Shit," he muttered. It was far, far too early in the day for this. The signal used GDI encryption. It was as sure a sign of authenticity as a watermark. After a few moments, the channel opened, and a holographic image of a dark-skinned human clad in a blue Naval uniform appeared.

"_This is Major Terrance Kyle of the GDS_ Ragnarok. _Am I speaking with the man in charge?_"

"Yeah, pretty much," Jarok smirked, "Awful far from home, ain't you?"

"_Insults will get you nowhere_," Kyle replied coldly, "_I'm ordering your immediate surrender to GDI custody._"

"On what charges?"

"_Piracy, kidnapping, and murder are at the top of the list_," Kyle ignored the mocking nature of the question, "_I'm sure we can find more if we take even half a look._"

"That'll be a problem, then," Jarok crossed his arms, smirk never leaving his face, "Because it sounds like you're looking for _pirates_, but everyone here is a private contractor under the employ of the Batarian Hegemony. If you have a complaint to file, I'll gladly pass it on."

"_I won't ask again: will you surrender into GDI custody?_" The technician breathed a sigh of relief. If Jarok got to vent on the presumptuous human, he'd get away from the whole situation that much better off.

"And if we don't?" Jarok shot back, "You'll come down here and make us? The arrogance of your species astounds me. You think that the entire 'verse should bow to you because you were top dog on your homeworld. You want us, you'll have to get your hands a little dirty."

"_Very well_," Kyle nodded, "_Then justice for your crimes will be exacted here and now._"

The hologram vanished, and Jarok suddenly saw a golden opportunity. Torfan was a veritable fortress, covered with bunkers and defense guns and honeycombed with tunnels that made it an invader's nightmare. A few hundred men could easily hold off an army of thousands.

If the GDI wasn't bluffing about an attack, he'd be the pirate who led the defense that pushed back the 'mighty' GDI military. Elanos Haliat had failed to establish himself as a self-styled pirate king with his invasion of Elysium, but here, Jarok had a defender's advantage, and a chance to fill the position Haliat had left vacant. Thoughts of fame and fortune filled his mind, and he swiftly handed out orders.

"Get everyone ready for an assault," he shouted, raising his voice so the rest of the technicians and men in the room could hear him, "I want AA guns online before the first drop pod breaks atmo. We'll turn 'em into coffins before they even hit the ground. Once they're down, arm any mines we've got nearby. Bastards will be spent before they even get in sight of us."

"GDI ships coming on screen," the technician announced, already feeling elated, "It looks like…" He trailed off, staring at the screen mutely. Jarok looked over his shoulder at the display.

"Well, look at that," he grinned, "This just gets better and better."

The GDI battlegroup was a sight to behold. Jarok saw through the array of cruisers and destroyers to the real prizes within it: two dreadnoughts, each emblazoned with the golden GDI eagle. And Glacier-class, no less: the pride of the Initiative arsenal. Each one could alone carry a substantial portion of an invasion force, and it made short work of all but massed cruisers or other dreadnaughts.

If GDI was dispatching two of their valuable ships for this operation, it would appear all the more disastrous when it amounted to nothing. It was just the sort of PR catastrophe for GDI that the Hegemony would welcome, and they would richly reward the one who gave it to them.

"How's their progress?" Jarok shook the technician out of his silence.

"No new movement to report. Steady decrease in velocity, but nothing else," the technician regained his composure and replied.

"How nice of them," Jarok snorted, "They're giving us time to get ready."

"Hang on. Picking up new energy signatures."

"That'd be the dropships. Make sure the gun crews are ready to go," Jarok nodded, satisfied that they were adequately prepared.

"Wait…" the technician frowned, both pairs of eyes squinting at his screen, "Energy signatures are only emanating from the two dreads. They don't match ME drives."

"What are you talking about?" Jarok was suddenly reminded of his dislike for the particular technician, "If they're sending out dropships, what else could they be running on?"

"Can't be right," the technician breathed, looking at another readout, trying to disprove his own findings, "Can't be right."

"Talk to me, damnit," Jarok demanded, "What the hell's the matter?"

"It's an ion buildup," the technician answered, his voice cracking as terror filled his expression, "Oh God, they're-"

* * *

Beams of emerald energy lanced from the dreadnaughts, slicing through fortifications and reducing the men within to ash. Jarok died before he could even appreciate the gravity of his refusal to surrender, but most of the pirates on Torfan died in fear and panic, trying to raise defensive barriers and taking futile shots with weapons that could neither hope to reach nor damage their attackers.

Torfan's buildings sported kinetic barriers that could stop even ship-based weapons, but they tragically depended upon something physical to activate them. The ion cannons barely distorted them as they passed through, sweeping across carefully laid minefields and bunkers alike.

When the surface was scoured, scanner sweeps and unmanned drones found tunnel entrances and underground structures. For the better part of an hour, the two Glacier-class dreadnaughts fired shot after shot from their ion cannons. 'Scorched earth' would have understated the devastation. There was no rubble where bunkers had simply ceased to exist, and the ion beams reshaped the surface with contemptuous ease.

Wherever scans detected signs of life, the twin mechanical titans erased it.

Major Terrance Kyle watched from the bridge of the _Ragnarok_, neither satisfied nor remorseful. At Shanxi, turian ships had slain hundreds of GDI soldiers from orbit, but Kyle would never equate that with the current action. Not because he believed the action to be somehow dishonorable, but because those were shots fired in a war that never came to fruition.

Here? These were pirates, pirates who carried the gear of soldiers and thought it made them warriors. Kyle didn't even consider it revenge for the attack on Elysium. An exterminator didn't fancy himself the avenger of a raided larder when he killed rats, and Kyle didn't consider this any more than a solution to the Initiative's growing vermin problem.

* * *

**2180**

**Batarian colony: Huron**

**Skyllian Verge**

The skies over Huron burned as the vessels in low-orbit fell apart. By the time crews managed to reach their few ground-based defenses, enemy ships had achieved sufficient dominance to turn them (and anything around them) into burning craters. What few shots that were fired did pitifully little: kinetic barriers designed to stop far stronger ordinance had no problem stopping them.

Huron had thought its location an advantage. Barely inside the Verge, it received virtually no attention from pirates because of their high tendency to be batarian, and it was bad form for pirates to raid worlds colonized by their biggest sponsors. In fact, it often had pirate vessels in orbit, including this very day.

But those ships were at several crippling disadvantages. Pirate ships were built, tautologically, for piracy: they were quick and agile, equipped with means to make them better at disabling and boarding their targets. Destroying a target was pointless when it could just as easily be put out of commission and stripped for parts and valuables. And dead traders never returned. Live ones would quite often come back through territory they'd been robbed in.

Their enemies were not traders, however. They were beyond that, beyond even rival pirate fleets. These were warships. They had no intentions to capture vessels inferior to their own, nor did they plan to loot valuables they did not need. They were built to destroy and, in turn, be resistant to destruction.

As debris blazed in Huron's atmosphere, it was clear as day that the ships excelled at both purposes. Most combat-capable ships were annihilated before they could even react to their attackers. Others were destroyed as they tried to flee. And those that tried to return fire died just the same.

Soon enough, the burning scrap was intermingled with dropships, carrying death to Huron's surface.

* * *

"Can you reach command yet?" the Sergeant shouted, not taking his eyes from the viewport of their bunker. He could see dropships setting down in the distance without even needing to magnify them. Deploying this close to a position was cocky of the invaders, but…

_They're right_, the Sergeant cursed internally, _They know we can't stop them from landing. _

"Nothing yet, sergeant," the Technician replied, "I-I think their weapons are causing interference."

"Wasn't enough to destroy our ships with 'em," the Veteran grunted, thumbs flexing over the firing studs of the bunker's gun emplacement. The Loader beside him gave a mirthless smirk, but the Sergeant did no such thing. The three of them may have been in combat before, but the Technician was the least experienced of them all, even when the platoon had been at full strength.

The Commander and well over half the platoon had died to the bombardment, trying to bring weapons that stood a chance against orbiting warships online. They had failed, and now there were four bunkers, two of them empty, and seven men between them. The Sergeant was the only officer left, and he didn't expect to last long enough for anything more than a battlefield promotion.

"Keep trying to get through. Even if we can't expect reinforcement, we still need to…to…" he trailed off as new silhouettes set down. If they hadn't been in flight, the Sergeant would have mistook them for five-story buildings. Even the Veteran and Loader weren't able to keep their eyes from widening.

"_Sergeant, did you see those?_" a voice from the second bunker came through the Sergeant's ear. The Others were paying close attention to the horizon, thankfully made even more wary by the lack of any direct supervision.

"Yeah. Just keep eyes on them and get your gun prepped. Confirm."

"_Confirmed._"

"How's our cannon?" the Sergeant spared a moment to look at the Veteran and the Loader. Both had already begun triple-checking their weapon as soon as they'd sighted the new dropships.

"As good as it'll ever be," the Loader replied, "Clear as the day it rolled off the assembly line and plenty of ammo to feed it."

"Gonna be plenty left over," the Veteran grumbled, "Not like we're running a long-term plan."

"Stow it," the Sergeant snapped, "Are you going to man that gun, or do I need to do it for you?"

"Hell no," the Veteran snarled, somehow managing to conjure a satisfying metal-on-metal _ka-chunk_ from the gun, "I tuned this thing myself. You couldn't play it if you wanted to." The Sergeant grinned internally. That had done it.

"Good. And who knows? Big dropships mean big targets. You're going to have a field day with this," the Sergeant added. This time, the Veteran even grinned, however malevolent it may have been. It was enough for the Sergeant, though. The last thing he needed to worry about was one of the few men he had left cracking under pressure.

"Anything yet?" It took a moment for the Technician to realize that the question was for him. He hesitantly shook his head.

"Sorry, sir. I'm not even sure if this set is strong enough to get that far off-world."

"Well, it's all we've got," the Sergeant replied, "If nothing else, get it to someone who can bounce it further. We don't…" he hesitated a moment, then finished, "We don't have much time."

Everyone present knew it was true, and the Sergeant figured that there was no point in lying about it. If anything, giving them hope he knew was false would only make them more likely to break when the noose was tightening. Soldiers already resigned to death held their positions, having decided that they had no reason to flee for.

"_Possible contacts, sergeant,_" one of the Others provided a much-needed shift of topic, however bleak it might turn out to be.

"Confirm. Six, no, eight contacts from what we can see. Can't make out details yet," the Sergeant said, both to them and the troops in his company.

"_Confirming eight, sergeant. Are those…?_"

"Shit," the curse escaped the Sergeant's inner voice and jumped out of his mouth before he could contain it, "Confirming enemy armor. Walkers, over."

"Good. Lighter armor than tanks. Easier job for us," the Veteran spat on the barrel of the emplacement. It boiled away almost as quickly as it landed.

"The _hell_ are those?" the Sergeant murmured to himself. They were walkers, that was unmistakable, but they were unlike any that he'd seen in intelligence files. If he could guess their height given the distance, they were easily twice as tall as the ones on record, possibly more. He further enhanced the viewport's image, and cursed under his breath.

The only walkers he'd seen before (and even then never in person) were squat, like tank turrets that had sprouted legs and replaced cannons with a pair of lighter weapons on either side. They were about as dangerous in terms of firepower as light tanks, and they were deceptively fast, but these were as far from those models as krogan were from asari. These looked more like heavy tanks that had traded their tracks for a pair of legs.

"You seeing these, sarge?" the Loader asked, snapping the Sergeant back to the situation at hand.

"Yeah. How long until they're in range of our guns?"

"A minute, maybe one and a half."

"Alright. Don't start firing until you're sure you can get hits," he made sure that his comm line was open, "Same goes for you guys. Confirm?"

"_Yessir. Orders confirmed_."

"It's now or never, soldier. Got some good news for me?" the Sergeant looked over the Technician's shoulder at the comm set.

"I got the signal past atmo, but I'm not sure if anyone's hearing it. I-I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be," the Sergeant clapped a hand on the young soldier's back, "You did better than I could've hoped for. Just keep broadcasting. Open channels if you need to, and include the feed from the bunker's scope. Got it?"

"Yessir. I'll make it happen," the Technician replied with newfound confidence. The Sergeant only regretted that he probably wouldn't have long to use it.

"Thirty seconds to range," the Loader announced. The Veteran was completely focused on the gun's sights. The Sergeant suppressed the sound of the deep breath he took to calm his nerves, then nodded.

"Make them count."

"Will do, sir," the Veteran broke his focus and gave an actual smile this time, "Might as well say now that it's been an honor." It caught the Sergeant off guard.

"Ah, you're wel…I mean, thank y-"

"But if we live through this, I never said that, got it?" the Veteran's smile widened, and then he turned his attention back to his weapon. The Sergeant quieted another deep breath before replying.

"Consider it done. If it helps, I'll even threaten to write you up for insubordination."

"Glad to hear it, you dumb bastard," the Veteran laughed, but his expression quickly reverted and hardened, "Ten seconds."

"Broadcasting on loop, sir," the Technician slumped in his seat, "I'm sorry I couldn't get it to reach-"

"No need. It was more than I should have-"

The last of the dismissal was lost behind the sudden _boom_ of the emplacement gun opening up. The Veteran didn't even blink as he moved his arms with the recoil of the cannon. It was a heavy gun, easily able to pierce light armor, and despite its high-caliber could fire off a fresh shell every other second. The result was a steady thunder that shook the bunker's walls and only failed to deafen its inhabitants because of the barrier between the muzzle and the interior that normally protected them from small-arms fire.

"_Engaging contacts!_" one of the Others announced, and the Sergeant was dimly aware of the opposite bunker's weapon opening fire as well.

The Veteran was firing just shy of the weapon's maximum range, and dealing with the natural recoil of such a steady rate of fire. But his shots roared downrange, slamming into his target and consuming it in fire.

"Scratch one," he grunted, "Seven more to-" He was cut off as a shell raced from the smoke, striking the ground some distance to the left of the bunker. The detonation was still enough to rattle their teeth in their heads, and the Veteran shifted his aim back.

The walker stepped through the smoke, a dim orange shell surrounding it. The Veteran swore viciously, refocusing his fire on the undamaged walker. The Sergeant was surprised how resilient the kinetic barriers were. How much punishment could it take? And that still left whatever armor it had to get through afterward.

Another shot came from the walker's cannon, along with one from one of its companions. The bunker rocked as its own kinetic barriers weathered one of the blasts, but the walkers had their location now. If their targeting systems were even half as good as their shields were, they wouldn't be missing any more shots.

"_We've lost barriers! They're going to-_"

The Sergeant closed his eyes as an explosion, louder than even the ones that pounded against their kinetic barriers, reverberated through the bunker. The Others were gone. The walker group had nothing more to divide its attention.

Three earthshaking blasts, and the Sergeant heard the sound of glass breaking. It was all too familiar to him, and he knew it too well to believe it was actual glass.

It was quick, if nothing else. Whether by luck or skill, a shell passed through the barrier that allowed the emplacement to fire out of the bunker. Veteran felt nothing as it first passed through his head, so quickly that severed it from his neck as cleanly as a guillotine. It continued, undaunted, and struck the opposite wall where it detonated.

Within half a heatbeat, the blast saw that the other three soldiers joined the Veteran in death. Their armor and personal kinetic barriers may as well have been prayers and wishful thinking for all the protection they offered. It had been the Sergeant's first and final command, and had he known his fate even days prior, he would've laughed that he had earned the Veteran's respect, or that he'd stood his ground against odds so impossible with just six men at his back.

But then again, not all men can live to know that they stared unblinking into the face of certain death. And over the next week, Jantine and Tarson would fall to the same force that had overwhelmed Huron. And on both worlds, there would be dozens of Sergeants and Veterans, unnoticed among thousands of pirates and brigands, diamonds lost in a mountain of broken glass.

The invaders would have been wise to notice these men. It would have warned them of what awaited them on Ral'dan.

* * *

**Codex - Global Defense Initiative - Declaration of War (excerpt)**

"_For the better part of the past decade, the Batarian Hegemony has waved their funding of piracy in the Skyllian Verge in the faces of all sentient races, humanity the first among them. The destruction of __Torfan has shown that the Initiative will not stand for attacks by slavers and outlaws, but the nest that hatched the egg remains undaunted, and the Council refuses to intervene. The path ahead is now more clear than it has ever been, and by unanimous vote, the board of directors has declared war against the Batarian Hegemony and any who would call themselves their allies. Torfan taught us that we face a foe who will not respond to anything but force, and I say, let them see how long they can stand beneath the weight of humankind. No more guarding borders. No more political debate. No more human deaths while the_ real_ enemy hides behind state-funded criminals. From this day forward, we fight until the unconditional surrender of the Batarian Hegemony. Good night, and may God bless the Initiative."_

_-Director Charles Saracino, December 8th, 2180_

* * *

**Next chapter: the GDI offensive force hits the ground running, finally on batarian worlds within actual Hegemony territory. **


	2. Klendathu Drop

**Apologies for the long wait, but a lot of changes and a severe lack of proofreading have come together to bring you chapter two.**

* * *

**2180**

**Batarian colony: Ral'dan**

**Batarian Hegemony**

"Entering debris field now, admiral."

"Give me a composition, Mr. Marston."

"Scanners show just scrap and rocks, sir, with a few satellites mixed in. Nothing that could do more than scratch our paint."

"Stabilize our orbit," Admiral Jason Niles relaxed slightly, leaning back in his command couch, "I want us even with the drop zone. Relay orders to the rest of the fleet."

"Yessir." The ensign followed the order as Niles scrolled through the images provided by InOps recon drones a few hours earlier. He allowed himself a small smile. The landing sites were as ideal as any soldier could hope for. The batarians may as well have built them spaceports just for the occasion.

But then again, it was practically to be expected. The batarians were proving just as inept at defending themselves as InOps had predicted. GDI had overtaken several unofficial colonies in the verge itself, and Ral'dan was soon to be the first world in actual batarian space. Simultaneous attacks were being launched against four additional worlds. Propaganda images and videos from the early conquests were widely circulated through GDI space, and broadcasted on open channels into Hegemony territory. Nothing demoralized an enemy quite like seeing what happened to the enemy that came before him.

"Orbit stabilized, admiral," Ensign Marston spoke up, "Awaiting your order."

"Begin the drop, Mr. Marston," Niles replied, "All units, commence deployment."

* * *

Zone troopers usually deployed via one-man drop pods, but today was an exception. Only hot-drops required such measures, and it was not worth the elevated risk of casualties or scatter when a dropship would do just as well given the circumstances.

Thus, second squad, first platoon of the 212th Heavy Infantry was strapped into the metal braces of a dropship capable of accommodating the power-armored soldiers. There was an audible _thunk_ as the capital ship's mooring clamps released their grips, and the dropship broke away from its patron vessel and began its descent to the planet's surface.

"We are going in with the first wave," Sergeant Dave Wilson's voice came through easily over the rumble of atmospheric reentry thanks to the squad's helmet comms, "Far as I'm concerned, that just means if any killing's to be done, we get to do it. So when that hatch opens, I want you to kill anything with more than two eyes, you get me?"

"_**We get you, sir!**_"

Among second squad was Lance Corporal Jacob Taylor, who glanced to his right as an armored fist knocked against his shoulder.

"Ready for some action, Jake?" Private Dawkins grinned. Taylor returned the gesture.

"You know it. I'm just worried they'll start running before we even hit the ground."

The dropship shook, slightly more than it had been already. Most of the men in the squad knew the feeling of a nearby flak explosion, and it didn't come as much of a surprise.

"Looks like they heard you," Dawkins laughed, "Let's get this done and hit some of the local bars. I hear batarian ale can-"

There was another jarring shake, harder this time. Dawkins shook his head for a second, cursing.

"Bathtardth made me bi' my to'gue," he muttered. If he planned to say anything else, it was cut off by still another jolt, and the interior lights of the dropship flickered.

"The hell, sarge?" one trooper, Mendoza, said over their comms, "Thought this was going to be a milk run."

"Beats the hell out of me," Wilson replied, "Same goes for command. Flak's supposed to be random and light."

As if in an effort to prove the statement still more false, another nearby impact shook each man in his brace, and the lights of the cabin flickered out to be replaced by red emergency lights.

"Sarge, are we-"

"Shut up," Wilson hissed, his attention on something coming through a frequency the rest of them couldn't hear. After a moment, he cursed and shouted,

"Change of plans! Get ready for a hot drop!"

* * *

Elsewhere, the Titan lance 'Goliath' had already landed, well aware of the new chatter coming through channels on all levels. Their landing was largely uneventful, and on a vast plain, no less. It was about as ideal a condition as the Titan Mk. IIIs could ask for.

"Say again, command," Captain Eric Valdez tried to cut through the mixed frequencies, "Repeat last, over."

"_What's the deal, cap?_" one of the other seven mech pilots spoke up. Though Valdez knew every other pilot in the demilance, he was too absorbed in the distorted communications to tell who it was.

"Can't tell," he finally said, "I'm barely picking up fleet signals, and this static makes it like-"

He abruptly stopped as he suddenly found his mech horrendously off-balance. It stumbled forward, and he barely righted himself before the massive war machine would've done a faceplant.

"_Shit! I think I hit a sinkhole or something_." Valdez regained his bearings just in time to see Goliath 1-3 and 1-6 almost suffer the same fate, both of their mechs losing their footing thanks to wide holes in the earth that he could have sworn weren't there moments ago.

Valdez stared at the ground around one of the holes as 1-6 pulled away from it, noting that a patch of brown was somehow pulled up by the three-toed foot. It looked suspiciously like…

"Camo-netting," he announced, repeating it to be sure that the rest of the demilance heard him, "It's camo-netting! These were dug-"

"_Captain! Contacts!_" Goliath 1-2 shouted, his Titan's cannon firing as he did. If Valdez didn't spot them himself, he would have from where 1-2's shell landed.

"Confirming at least five…Jesus, how many are there?" Valdez breathed. At distances as short as a few hundred meters, more sheets of camo-netting were falling away, this time revealing gun emplacements and tanks in dugouts instead of empty holes.

"Widen formation!" Valdez barked, firing off a shot as he did, "Don't give them a group to-" His order gave way to miscellaneous cursing as his mech's footing nearly succumbed to yet _another_ pit. How many of these were there?

The batarians were firing now, and shields lit up across the eight mechs. Their kinetic barriers were tough, but the mobility of mechs was one of their biggest advantages, and that was effectively nullified by the pits that were no doubt coating the plain. Damned InOps drones couldn't tell the difference between ground and camouflaged pits designed to look like ground!

Even worse was that it didn't just impair their mobility. Goliath 1-5 almost knocked itself over as it fired its cannon and lost a toe in the depths of another hole. Normally, the internal gyroscope and recoil dampeners could let the Titan fire on the move without difficulty, but that didn't matter if they were already struggling to stand from the treacherous terrain.

An explosion went off under Goliath 1-7's foot. The towering mech strained to keep its balance until an enemy shell hit its squarely in the body. It crashed to the ground like a felled tree.

"Four, Nine, cover Seven," Valdez ordered, "And watch your step. I've never met an enemy who only buried one mine." He kept the fleet's channel open, but it still was filled with static to the point of uselessness.

"_Heads up!_ _Enemy aircraft!_"

The resounding _boom_ of supersonic aircraft filtered through Valdez's speakers, and he turned just in time to see Goliath 1-3 erupt like a volcano, spraying shrapnel and molten metal that sparked off the rest of the lance's barriers before crumbling to the ground.

Valdez swore, turning his gun on an enemy emplacement and letting off two shots in as quick succession as the firing mechanism allowed. It shouldn't have been possible: Titans might not have been as tough as some of the heavier tanks in the GDI arsenal, but they came equipped with passive _and_ active anti-missile systems to protect them from guided missiles, especially those fired from aircraft. It was one of their first major upgrades since the widespread integration of mass effect technology.

Then it hit him. The ordinance hadn't been thrown off by guidance-scrambling devices because they had no guidance system to scramble. They had hit after the aircraft had moved overhead because they hadn't even been jet-propelled.

"The four-eyed bastards are dive bombing us!" Valdez shouted, "Don't count on AMS to do jack during their attack runs! Hit 'em when they get low!" The Titans might not have been designated anti-infantry or anti-air, but they nonetheless had hull-mounted mass accelerators to leave them with some firepower other than their cannons.

By now, 1-7 was upright, but one leg was still heavily damaged from the mine, and the Titan was leaning to take weight off it. He was up just in time to see the aircraft finish their turn, rounding back for another bombing run. Valdez would have been glad for the small miracle, but 1-6 stumbled as its kinetic barriers collapsed, and a trio of quick rounds from the ground emplacements slammed into its core. With its cockpit gutted almost instantaneously, the mech slumped without a sound from the slain pilot.

"Goliath leader to command: we're getting hammered down here!" Valdez gritted his teeth as another shot pounded into his barriers, "LZ was a setup, and we're up against an unknown number of enemy ground forces supported by a wing of bombers."

"_Fast movers incoming!_" 1-8 called out. Mass accelerator fire sprayed from two Titans, but the vast majority missed, and what few that connected were easily halted by familiar motes of orange light. Primitive as their payloads were, the bombers still had kinetic barriers.

"Damnit, command, is anyone on this freq?"

* * *

Second squad was hunkered down in the smoking remains of third squad's dropship. It had been destroyed before it even had the chance to set down. Lance Corporal Jacob Taylor raised his Werewolf over the improvised cover and fired blindly. If it reduced the incoming fire at all, Taylor couldn't tell. There was so much that virtually any exposure was guaranteed to break even the tough kinetic barriers of Zone armor within seconds.

From the wreckage, only three troopers had managed to extricate themselves, bolstering the squad to nine soldiers. Four members of second squad were already dead, and Sergeant Wilson had lost his left hand to an anti-tank shell. He was only still conscious because of the various life support systems built into the armor, and contributed to the squad's firepower with a handgun that men without powered armor would've needed both hands to fire without dislocating their shoulders.

They couldn't have known it, but their situation was similar to that of thousands of other soldiers across the planet, trying to connect to command channels that couldn't be reached, and left only with the comm chatter of anyone close enough to be heard.

"Say again, gunny, you're coming through badly, over," Wilson fired off a shot from his hand-cannon, ducking back only when a storm of return fire nearly riddled him with holes.

"_We can't…ch you, sergeant, repeat, we ca…t reach you. Everyone I can hear is ju…up shit creek as us and nobo..ot issued a paddle._"

"Where's armor support?" Wilson shouted over the din, even though his helmet would have ensured that the sound of combat didn't interfere with the already patchy signal, "What happened to the tanks?"

"_Same story, bu…near your position, north-no…east, callsign '_Warthog_.' They're stu…ort of trap and immobilized. Can you get there?_"

"What do you think, Jake?" Wilson knocked his shorn wrist against Taylor's shoulder, "Can you get us through?"

"Me, sir?"

"I won't bullshit you, son. My vision's fading. Painkillers and stims are keeping me on my feet, but I'll be worse than useless if I try to lead blind," Wilson grimaced behind his polarized visor, "Sorry to pin this on you, but you're acting squad leader. Can you get us to these coordinates?"

The immobilized tank's location appeared on Taylor's HUD, as well as an uplink to wider comm channels.

"It's not too far," Taylor examined the distance, "But it might as well be a marathon if we just dash through all this fire. We need cover…"

"Can we reach the _Warthog_'s crew?" he asked. Wilson nodded, and the channel in question opened in Taylor's HUD.

"_Warthog_, come in. Can you hear us?"

"_You're a welcome sound, sergeant_. _We read you,_" a strained voice replied, apparently using the channel clearance Wilson had passed to Taylor to guess his rank.

"_Warthog, _we are southwest of your position, by the wreckage of a dropship. Can you see us from your location?"

"_Heh. Which wreckage?_"

"The one they're still shooting at."

"_Alright, we can see-_" a rumble ran through the ground under Taylor's feet, and he heard a distant sound of detonation, "_We can see you, sergeant._"

"We're under fire from at least three enemy positions, but we can't stick our heads out without getting them shot off, and we can't move unless some of them let up."

"_I read you, sergeant. We might be stuck in the mud, but we've still got teeth. Standby for fire support._"

"Danger close!" Taylor shouted, "And get ready to move!"

The second sign of the _Warthog_'s intervention was the slackening of fire on second squad's position. But the first sign was an explosion that sent a wave of dust and debris sweeping over the squad, and sending up a geyser of dirt and blood an alarmingly short distance away.

"That's our cue! Move it!" Taylor flipped Wilson's wounded arm over his shoulder, slinging his rifle so he could focus on moving the sergeant with all possible speed. With a quick burst from their jump packs to give them a fast start, the squad hit the ground running, letting off shots from their weapons whenever possible.

Even without a hand and with his condition worsening, Wilson managed to fire his handgun and keep pace reasonably well with Taylor's support. One trooper fell as a heavy shell ripped through his sternum, blasting the contents of his torso out through his back. There was no noise from the unfortunate man over the comms, and Taylor could only hope that meant he'd died instantly.

"There it is!" Another man, Dawkins, shouted, "Eighty meters!"

Taylor staggered as Wilson let out a pained grunt, almost bringing them both to a surely fatal stop. With his barriers down, several shots had penetrated Wilson's legs, reducing him to a fraction of his already compromised speed.

"Drop me and get moving, boy," Wilson hissed, biting back pain that even the painkillers couldn't hold back, "I'm dead weight enough for both of us."

"No damn way, sir," Taylor replied, "We're close enough to-"

"I said get moving, soldier," Wilson shot back, "That's an order!" A few light rounds glanced off the backs of their suits, none penetrating.

"You gave me rank in this squad, sir," Taylor fought off Wilson's weakened efforts to push away, "You're still alive, and I ain't leaving you."

"If that's what it takes."

Taylor only saw the motion of Wilson's arm when it was far too late to stop it. And even then, both of Taylor's arms were straining to support the wounded sergeant's weight. He only had time to look and hear the report. It echoed inside his head, and an instant later, Wilson slipped from his grasp, nerveless fingers still gripping the pistol.

An instant later, Taylor triggered his jump pack to push him back into pace with the rest of the squad. He wasn't sure if it had been the soldier's instinct he'd trained so hard to gain or some ingrained survival reaction buried somewhere in his subconscious, but Taylor closed the last of the distance to the relative safety offered by the _Warthog _on something resembling autopilot. He knew that he was moving, but it wasn't by any real conscious effort on his part.

Time had slowed when Sergeant Dave Wilson slid out of his grip, smoke seeping from the hole in his cracked visor opened by the shot that had ended his life and saved Taylor's. It didn't return to normal time for what felt like an eternity, and it repeated itself whenever Taylor was forced to remember Ral'dan.

* * *

"Still nothing, admiral. Something's interfering with communications."

"Then find whatever it is and _remove it_," Admiral Jason Niles shot back. The implication was clear, and gunners had long since been ordered to make sure their batteries were running hot.

"Drones are returning, admiral," another ensign announced, "Connecting you to their feeds."

Niles nodded, tapping a finger against an arm of his command couch and bringing the videos onto his display. There were eight total, each of them occupying a square of the total 'screen,' but they were almost universal in the chaos they played back for the shocked admiral.

"_-lost half my platoon, require immediate-_"

"_Enemy air support! Keep your-_"

"_-stuck in the mud, but we've still got teeth. Standby-"_

"_Oh Christ! Seal your suits! They're using-_"

"Admiral?" an ensign looked expectantly to the silent officer.

"Find the source of the interference," Niles murmured, barely audible to those around him, "As soon as we reestablish our connections, order a general retreat."

"Sir?"

"You heard me," Niles spoke more clearly now, snapped out of his daze, "Find the-"

A tremor rippled through the ship, and several junior officers cursed aloud.

"Multiple hull breeches! Sealing airlocks and assessing damage."

"What the hell was that, Mr. Marston?" Niles opened a green and red damage schematic as his second formed his reply.

"Something inside our barriers, sir," Marston replied without taking his eyes from his console, "It must've been…" He trailed off, eyes suddenly caught on the sight unfolding just off the ship's bow. Niles, too, saw it, and he could barely believe his eyes.

Some distance away, the cruiser _Georgetown_ was adding its own mass to the debris field surrounding Ral'dan. There were multiple gaping wounds in its hull, and a silent explosion tore another open along its side.

"_Georgetown_, report," Niles demanded.

"-_ust keep pressure on it!_ _Admiral, we've taken catastrophic damage. Wilkins thinks it was some sort of explosive mixed in-"_

"-with the debris field," Niles finished, then returned to the transmission, "_Georgetown, _can you maintain orbit?"

"_Negative, admiral. We've lost-_" there was the sound of an explosion, followed by muffled obscenities, but the voice returned, shaken but alive, "_We've lost power to the engines, and it's a blessing we've got enough hull integrity to keep from breaking apart._"

"_Georgetown, _you are authorized to abandon ship. The _Kursk_ will…" he paused, suddenly remembering a missed detail, "_Georgetown, _who am I speaking with?"

"_Ensign Kowalski, admiral. Captain Shaw is…he's dead, sir._"

"Ensign, I need you to pass on the evacuation order. Can you do that?"

"_Yessir. I'll see to it_."

"Good. I'll inform the _Kursk_ to be ready to intercept lifeboats," Niles closed the channel, "EVA, give me a line to the _Kursk_. I want them-"

"Incoming signal from the _Jericho_, sir," Marston shouted, "And multiple eezo signatures. IFF says foe."

"_Admiral, this is Captain Hoth. Can you hear me?_"

"Well enough, captain. Are you seeing these new eezo sigs?"

"_All too clearly, admiral. It's the batarian navy. They're out in force._"

"Are you engaged, captain?"

"_Yessir. Barriers are holding, and I've got the _Warsaw_ with me. We can see…_" a pause, and a whisper not audible over the channel, "_Six enemy ships. Tough to say what they are, but sizes and armament displayed thus far seem to point to three cruisers and and the same number of destroyers._"

Niles should have known better than to spread the invasion fleet so thinly across the planet. The adage might have made no logical sense, but the whole truly was greater than the sum of its parts. The GDI fleet over Ral'dan would have given the best-prepared military pause for thought, but with half in this hemisphere and half on the other side of the world, it suddenly seemed a whole lot more vulnerable.

"Keep in contact, captain. Let me know if the situation worsens."

"_Understood, admiral. _Jericho _out_."

"Contacts, admiral," Marston raised his voice, "Four big, and lots of-" He didn't bother finishing the report: the batarian vessels were already filling the bridge's forward viewports.

"EVA, get me that line with the _Kursk_," Niles ordered, speaking once he saw the command was followed, "_Kursk, _focus your fire on contact Charlie," his fingers flew over his control panel, "Secondary target is Delta. We'll do the same for Beta and Alpha."

"_Orders confirmed, admiral. Engaging._"

The GDS _Kursk_ was a heavy cruiser, one that could normally overpower other ships in its weight class so easily that to an enemy cruiser, it might as well have been a dreadnaught. But between its two designated targets among the newly-arrived enemy vessels and the incoming lifeboats from the _Georgetown_, it had its work cut out for it. The best Niles could hope for was to take the attention of its two contacts and, if possible, one of the _Kursk_'s, letting it focus on the rescue mission.

"Missile barrage incoming," an ensign announced, "Shields and AMS will be more than enough." Niles gave a grim smile. He had the attention of three enemy ships, and two had just released their first salvo of fire on him. He'd weather it until the _Kursk_ was ready to devote itself fully to combat.

"Hold on. Eezo readings, riding with the missiles," another officer interjected, "Looks like a swarm of corvette-class ships."

"Ignore them," Niles ordered, "Focus your attention on their cruisers. They're the immediate threat."

As if to reinforce his sentiment, a mild tremor ran through the ship, presumably the barrage impact. From his commander's overview, Niles could see that the barriers were still holding just fine.

"Reports of hull damage coming in from six separate points," Marston shouted urgently.

"Barriers are still intact. Where's that damage coming from?" an officer thought aloud. Niles double-checked his readouts and confirmed Marston's report.

"Switching hull cameras," Niles informed the bridge, "Prep response teams in case the damage is…"

It wasn't possible. It was the twenty-second century, for Christ's sake! This sort of thing was what a navy might expect in the nineteenth, maybe twentieth at the latest.

The corvettes had anchored themselves to the hull of the _Gallipoli_. Personnel tubes that normally extended for docking with other ships were extended and sealed against the GDI vessel. Niles couldn't see it for himself, but the only place the damage could be coming from was from inside that hollow passageway.

"We're being boarded," he said, as if trying to convince himself that it was possible. A second passed, and reality reasserted itself.

"All hands in damaged sectors, prepare to repel boarders! Combat personnel, move to reinforce-"

"_Admiral! They're through!_" a voice in his ear shouted. Niles could hear the sound of sporadic gunfire through the comm.

"Stand your ground. Reinforcements are on their way."

"_Aye, sir. We're…holy shit, back! BACK! They've got a-_"

The line went dead, and Niles had seen enough combat to know that it took a lot to cut off a signal that abruptly. For every example of famous, valiant last words, there were thousands of screams of surprise and fear, none of which were inspiring in the slightest. Because the fact remains that the vast majority of people don't go into combat with any intention of dying.

* * *

The sounds of combat had fallen silent before Gunnery Sergeant Chuck Myers could reach the fighting. And with no friendly communications coming their way, Myers assumed the worst of the situation.

Noise up ahead, around a blind corner and very close to the location Myers and his team were supposed to be moving to support. He brought up a hand and brought his men to a quick stop.

"Closing on breech near engineering," he said far more quietly than necessary. Their helmets were already sealed, and nobody outside of their communication channels could hear their speech.

"Anyone near our location, respond." GDI firearms had built-in IFF systems, but guns required a line-of-sight. Myers _could_ lob a couple grenades around the corner, but they couldn't tell the difference between a friendly crewman just out of a deadly firefight and a hostile boarder.

Fortunately, they had a way of striking a healthy middle ground.

"Flashbangs ready, gunny," one Marine confirmed when he received a look from Myers. The team piled as closely as they dared to the corner, and Myers gave a nod. No words were needed.

Omni-tools were useful, but many Marines still relied on grenades made outside of the micro-fabricator, and these flashbangs were no exception. Pins were pulled, and after a second of waiting, they were sent clattering into the unknown hallway. Two bursts of gunfire hit the deck near the grenades. And a second after that, anyone in the hallway looking at the source of the noise were subjected to the momentary supernova flare and thunderclap.

Marine helmets could dampen or outright block noises at decibels dangerous to the human eardrum, and their visors could auto-adjust quickly enough to protect their eyes from an _actual_ supernova blossoming a few feet from their faces. If it turned out that whoever was around the corner was just a group of luckless crewmen, they'd be subjected to the full extent of the flashbang's effects.

But if not, Myers and his team were rounding the corner, ready to put down anyone who had the gall to invade their patron ship.

* * *

**Two minutes earlier…**

Squad Commander Hark Bal'tha gestured for a ceasefire. The order was followed instantly. Very few boarding parties survived long enough to become veterans of their art, but those that did knew how to keep surviving.

Still in complete silence, Hark knelt down to the corpse of a human sailor, grasping his left arm and running his omni-tool's scanner over it. A progress bar appeared on his helmet's HUD and began to fill as the program sought out and extracted its desired files.

A soft _chirp_ came over the comm line, and Hark turned his head to face the trooper who had sent it without taking his hand out of place. The soldier, in turn, looked up from his handheld motion tracker and raised an open hand, all five fingers splayed. He closed it into a fist, paused for a moment, then opened it again with three fingers up.

The progress bar was over halfway filled. Hark sent three quick _chirps_ to three of his men, then pointed in the direction of the closest intersection. The three soldiers moved alongside three more who were already covering that direction, weapons long since primed.

The soldier with the scanner held up a hand quickly, and the six troopers tensed. The remaining members of the squad continued their assigned tasks, even if it meant covering the opposite corridor. The scanner might have been simple and generally reliable, but Hark had known systems that could fool it, and that those systems could be portable by a single person. He wouldn't devote all attention to covering one side only to be butchered by stealth troops from behind them.

Two of the guards squeezed their triggers as motion leapt from the unseen hallway and into their line of sight. It was a rookie mistake that would've given away their location and direction of fire, but the two were replacements for soldiers lost in a previous operation. If the mistake cost them any lives but their own, Hark might've killed them himself.

But even a single glimpse was enough to see what objects they had fired on were, and Hark raised a free hand to cover his eyes.

The explosion of light and sound was astounding, even with Hark's helmet compensating for them both. The two rookies and one of the other guards were not so lucky. They stumbled and cried out, deaf to their own voices as their helmets failed them.

"Cover!" Hark shouted. Breaking radio silence was dangerous, but not nearly so much as trying to keep it when in a firefight. His squad dove into alcoves and any barriers they could find as two more canisters clattered around the corner. And not a moment too soon, either.

* * *

The fragmentation grenades exploded, shredding the three boarders who had been unfortunate enough to be stunned by the flashbangs. With the rest of them still hunkered down, Myers chose then to move.

"Keep 'em down!" he ordered, spraying the batarian position with automatic fire, "Get us a foothold!"

Four of the Marines dashed out as their squadmates kept the boarders pinned, ducking down as soon as viable cover was in reach.

"Clear! Covering fire!"

In perfect synch, the newly-entrenched four rose up and opened fire as Myers and his three stopped. Pepperpotting was a tactic as old as firearms, but it was undeniable effective. With cover of their own, they fell in beside their comrades and joined the gunfight as the batarians did the same.

* * *

"_Admiral! We've found the hostiles in engineering. Relaying coordinates, over."_

"Keep them engaged, gunnery sergeant," Niles replied, inputting several commands, "I'm sealing the bulkhead between them and critical systems. Can you hold them without reinforcements?"

"_Negative, sir. They've got numbers on their side, and a better position than us._"

"A three-way intersection, yes?"

"_Yessir_."

"I'll divert a team to flank them. Just keep their heads down, gunnery sergeant."

"_Will do, admiral. Myers out._"

Another low tremor pulsed through the ship. Niles had not forgotten that their enemy was not only the ones crawling inside his ship. Even if all four enemy ships were inferior to the _Kursk_ and the _Gallipoli_, the former was still shielding the gutted _Georgetown_'s lifeboats, and Niles had only inflicted minor damage across three of the ships. Lacking in quality, the batarian crews were at least able to compensate by maneuvering to spread the damage among themselves. If one was coming close to losing its barriers, another would draw the _Gallipoli_'s fire by threatening the _Kursk_.

"Cease fire from ion cannons," Niles ordered, "EVA, inform gunners of new priority target Bravo. Ignore targets Alpha, Charlie, and Delta. Mr. Marston, How long until all batteries are ready to fire?"

"Ten seconds. Ion cannons at 75%."

Contact Bravo was easily the biggest of the four batarian vessels. From visual observation alone, Niles could see that it was contributing the most to the batarian firepower, and the EVA's assessment matched his theory. It was the single greatest threat of the four, and Niles could see that it was about to tap out and let some of its compatriots take blows while it restored its barriers.

"Guns charged, sir."

"EVA, give me a firing solution on a missile barrage. Time strike for three seconds after ion impact."

"_Complete_."

"Alpha strike authorized. Open fire."

* * *

For a few moments, all outgoing fire from the _Gallipoli_ ceased. Then a storm of missiles tore from its hull-mounted launchers, the projectiles so numerous that it took several seconds of sustained fire to launch them all.

No sooner had the barrage ended that every forward-facing ion battery and mass accelerator cannon fired in unison. The batarian warship's barriers had already taken a beating, and it hadn't yet been the sole focus of the _Gallipoli_'s weaponry until now.

The ion beams passed through the barriers with little effort. Starship-grade mass accelerator cannons followed next, pulverizing and breaking the weakened shields, aided by the ion beams' destruction of dozens of hull-mounted barrier amplifiers.

The missile barrage dealt the killing blow. Point-defense lasers that ought to have stopped them had already been slagged by the ion cannons. The storm of missiles hammered into the bow of the warship and ate their way inward. Fully a third of the ship was added to the growing scrap field that orbited Ral'dan.

* * *

"EVA, dump emergency capacitors into barriers," Niles would've liked nothing more than to bask in the victory, but there were still three more ships, not to mention the boarders that (he hoped) were about to be caught in a pincer by the onboard Marines, "Keep our shields up until our guns are ready."

"_Damn good work_, Gallipoli," a transmission from the _Kursk_ came in, "_We've just received the last of the lifeboats from the _Georgetown." A pair of ion blasts carved a swath of destruction across one of the batarian ships to make official the _Kursk_'s return to full capacity. The damaged vessel returned fire, but from how little fire it was from such a large ship, the _Kursk_ had clearly hit something important.

A tremor ran through the ship.

"_Alert: critical engine damage. Containment protocols engaging._"

"Gunnery Sergeant, give me an update," Niles hissed as damage reports flooded into his console. There was no reply from Myers' end.

"Gunnery Sergeant, can you hear me?"

* * *

**One minute earlier**

They had a flamethrower.

It was the twenty-second century. They were using with cutting-edge assault weapons, wearing suits of body armor with onboard kinetic shielding, and fighting in the corridors of a spaceship.

And yet, the batarians had brought a flamethrower, and one of Myers' men was dead for it, and another not far off.

"Still no sign of those reinforcements, gunny!" a soldier shouted across the hall, taking cover inside an alcove as a jet of white-hot flame swept the floor, "Can't even reach the bridge anymore, either!"

"Shit," Myers muttered, firing off a blind burst before ducking back again, "Nothing changes! Assume we're in this alone until I say otherwise!"

Myers cursed again as the scorching flames moved closer to his position. They needed to move up, but with that weapon still functional, that was out of the question. And when they were this close to engineering, the boarding squad could easily split and hold Myers' team at bay while the other half had their way with the engines.

"On my signal, move out of cover and light that bastard up!" Myers barked, switching his Werewolf to an automatic module, "He can't focus on all of us at once, and we need that gun out of the picture. Understood?" He received four affirmative responses, as expected. One man was dead, and another writhing on the deck from wounds he'd taken when the flamethrower had first opened up. The squad's corpsman was tending to him behind cover.

"Go!"

Five men moved simultaneously, coinciding perfectly with a momentary lapse in the flamethrower's fire. It took only an instant to target the batarian holding the bulky weapon. Myers squeezed the trigger, and fire from five rifles converged on the one man. He didn't stand a chance.

Even as he held back the trigger, Myers saw another boarder take aim.

It was the twenty-second century.

They were fighting in the halls of a spaceship.

And the batarians had brought _two_ flamethrowers with them.

Myers had a fleeting moment to admire the brilliant simplicity of the weapon choice before hydrazine flames roared from its muzzled and engulfed him.

* * *

Squad Commander Hark Bal'tha knew that their position would not hold for long. Their weapons and gear were tailored for fighting in the close-quarters of starship corridors, but there would always be more men aboard the ship than he could bring along with him.

Half his remaining men held the main entrance to their target. There were two more that he could not spare the men to cover, but they were much further away. Any responding squads would likely be funneled right into his team's literal field of fire.

He and one other had the expertise to arm the explosives, and that other was one of the initial casualties of the firefight. Hark redoubled his efforts to compensate, setting down the bulky detpack and beginning its arming sequence.

One of the ship's engineers appeared to his left, wielding a pistol. In one smooth motion, Hark drew his own and fired off two shots. The human dropped without a sound, save for a surprised gasp and a _thud_.

"Squad commander! Contacts!" The chatter of automatic fire told Hark everything he needed to know about the warning. A few rounds pinged off the deck around him, but he paid them no heed. He was almost finished. If he could prime the explosive and finish off the squad he'd already bloodied, they still had a chance to escape before-

Three shots hit him. The first two shattered his kinetic barriers. The third hit him on his left flank, making a mockery of his ballistic armor. He fell on his side, taking aim with his pistol only to see that his worst case scenario was coming true: the human reinforcements had taken the long route, outside his killzone and right where he didn't want them to be.

Hark dropped his pistol and dragged himself alongside the detpack. The shot hurt like hell, but Hark had been shot before. You didn't survive for a long time as a leader of a boarding party without ever getting shot. The trick was _surviving_ the shots, and Hark could tell already that this one would likely be his last.

Only one of his men in the engine room was left, and though he could still hear the _whoosh_ of a flamethrower, it wouldn't be enough to hold back this many Marines.

Without a word, he flipped the safety cap off the detonator and pressed the stud. As unreliable as Batarian State Arms may be, the detpack did not disappoint.

* * *

**Codex - The Verge War - Invasion of Ral'dan**

_The first major disaster of the Verge War took place on the surface and in the space surrounding Ral'dan, a batarian colony just inside Hegemony space. GDI ground forces met unprecedented resistance from well-armed, well-prepared soldiers entrenched planetside, and sustained high casualties before temporarily retreating. _

_In space, GDI ships suffered their worst loss since the beginnings of the First Contact War. The GDS_ Georgetown _was destroyed, though with most crew safely evacuating to friendly ships, and the GDS _Galipoli_ was successfully boarded, resulting in heavy internal damages. The GDS_ Poseidon, _however, was swarmed by batarian boarding frigates and corvettes. Despite the efforts of the GDS_ Jericho_, Captain Ernest Harrison put his ship into a rapidly decaying orbit shortly before batarian soldiers stormed the bridge. The _Poseidon_ crashed planetside within the hour, resulting in the deaths of all who still remained aboard._

_Ral'dan was but one of five worlds being attacked in this manner, and it was easily the most disastrous outcome for GDI. Only one world was claimed as easily as initially anticipated. Two more came under GDI control, albeit with great effort, and the final two (Ral'dan included) remained contested long after their initial invasion. _

**Codex - Batarian Military - Hegemony boarding parties**

_Just as GDI impressed the Citadel races with its carriers, humanity was caught off-guard by the Batarian Hegemony's use of seemingly out-of-date methods of naval warfare, particularly the prominent use of boarding parties. _

_Batarian boarding parties typically use frigates or corvette-class ships to make impromptu 'landings' on enemy ships, cutting into the hull or using existing ports to gain access. Their ranks are composed of hardened soldiers who regularly loot weapons and tech from their foes. As a result, boarding parties are often equipped with gear that completely replaces their Hegemony-issued equipment._

* * *

**And that's chapter two. Read 'n review, anon accepted, same as usual. **_  
_


	3. Easy

**Friday (barely) update! After two setup chapters, this is the official start of the main storyline. A few prominent characters won't be introduced until chapter four-ish, but until then, here's chapter three. **

* * *

The tribunal was a joke. Or at least it would have been if the intention were to actually punish those on trial. This might have bothered Private First Class Joseph 'Joe' Cotton at any other time, but it's generally unwise for the defendant to protest the leniency of his sentencing. He, and the mixture of men and women on the bench beside him, probably would have been staring down a court martial in any other conflict.

But, times as they were…

"As per your guilty plea, you will each be transferred to a frontline penal unit and assigned duties best befitting your skill set," the presiding officer used practiced tones that made it sound as if he was used to handing out that sentence. He didn't even need to look at the data slate.

"The duration of your involuntary term of service will last is dependent upon the severity of your offense, and will be denoted on your service record. With that said," the officer cracked a smile, "You'll be escorted back to the holding area and reissued your gear. You ship out in two hours. Dismissed."

And that was that. No 'court adjourned,' nor the bang of a gavel. Nothing to even remind them that they were being led to some sort of punishment. Cotton was able to at least suppress a grin until he was out of the improvised courtroom. Other 'prisoners' were not so subtle, but it didn't matter much. If the 'judge' was openly acknowledging that they were just being redeployed, there wasn't much to stop them from doing the same.

"Penal company, eh?" one of the 'guards' escorting them asked Cotton, who nodded in reply.

"Lucky bastards," the guard laughed, "I'm stuck here as a glorified doorman. What'd you do, anyway?"

"'Unnecessary brutality against a sentient foe,'" Cotton recited from memory. A couple of the other prisoners nodded in agreement.

"Got most of us, I think," one of them added.

"Lucky bastards," the guard repeated. He didn't ask if their enemy had done something to prompt that sort of vindictive behavior. He wasn't particularly judgmental on that front. After Ral'dan, few soldiers in the human military were. He probably considered the offense a punishment for exacting their own justice for 'one count of being batarian within sight of GDI troops.'

"Here we are," the guard keyed open a door, gesturing grandly into the interior, "Your suite, sirs and madams. I'll be back at 1400 once the valet brings your car around." He garnered a few laughs, probably more than he would if they weren't all in such good spirits. Sure, it was a reassignment, but the 'holding area' was a testament to the current state of GDI's stance towards punishment of military personnel.

It was actually more spacious than most barracks, as half the bunks has been removed due to the limited number of people who were there at any given time. The doors weren't even locked: the guards had simply told them that they were supposed to stay there at all times unless told otherwise, but then informed them that the mess hall and latrines were down the hall. The key phrase was 'supposed to.' They were 'supposed to,' but they still did, and nobody would say otherwise. It was assumed that nobody would try to escape, and nobody did. If they _did_ leave their holding area, what did it matter to the guards?

As the 'judge' had said, their gear had been delivered to the barracks, most of it in better condition than when it was confiscated. The most obvious changes were to the unit insignias, modified to fit with their new companies. Cotton assumed (correctly as it turned out) that the alterations to their gear had been largely superficial, for which he was thankful. One of the prisoners was his former company's marksman, and his GLS-110 was undoubtedly tuned continuously from the day it was issued until the day it was taken from him. It was effectively as different a weapon from another GLS as it was from a Mammoth tank.

Cotton's weapon, however, was stored in a crate a solid five feet long. It didn't take up the entire space, but it took up quite a bit of it, and then had to accommodate alternate modules, sidearm, maintenance kit, etc. It would be too much to carry efficiently, but the hulking suit of armor propped up behind it ensured that weight was no issue.

Two soldiers besides Cotton were members of Zone-armored Heavy Infantry companies. The soldiers had bunked according to their prior duties, and thus he was flanked on either side by Melissa Palmer and Joakim 'Red' Ericson, both of whom were double-checking their own suits.

Like Cotton, Palmer was the Heavy Infantry's equivalent of a rifleman, though that was a bit of a misnomer. Each Zone trooper's plus-sized 'Werewolf' shifter rifle could be anything from a light machinegun or grenade launcher to an ion cannon or railgun. The mere _prospect_ of a Heavy Infantry company being deployed from orbit had broken many a siege, and actual drops could turn pitched battles into a bloodbath for whatever unfortunate force was still standing after the burning rain of half-ton supermen.

Ericson's weapon, however, was much less versatile. While Cotton and Palmer's weapons had a half dozen different firing modes available at any given time, Ericson's only had one. In spite of that, the M6 'Grinder' Heavy Machinegun had a caliber and a rate of fire that could turn swaths of exposed infantry into fragments of armor and ground meat. As such, it was feared by virtually any soldier who wasn't inside a heavy tank or a reinforced bunker.

"You guys going to the 2nd?" Palmer examined the newly painted insignia on her armor.

"Yep," Cotton confirmed, and Ericson gave a thumbs-up.

"Good. It's about damn time," Palmer began to open her armor, "Been waiting for a good deployment for months."

"Didn't get enough action with your old unit?" Cotton asked.

"No." Cotton waited a moment, then realized that Palmer wasn't going to add anything else to her answer and turned his attention to Ericson.

"How about you, Red?"

"Some action, but no good for me," he answered, wherever he was raised leaving him with a seemingly-Scandinavian accent and slightly clipped speech pattern, "In last deployment, I fire gun into ground floor of building filled with enemy, and building come down on top of them."

"Sounds fine to me," Cotton shrugged, "How'd that get you-"

"People who are not enemy on second and third floor," Ericson finished, "They come down, too."

"Sounds fine to me," Palmer snorted, continuing her armor diagnostics.

"Maybe yes, maybe no," Ericson shrugged, "But I do it in front of camera, so it put me here."

"Only for another two hours," Cotton grinned, "Then it'll put us right where we're needed most."

* * *

**2181  
**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul **

**Hegemony Territory**

Upon touching down, the dropship carrying Cotton, Palmer, Ericson and a dozen other Zone troopers was met with a bare-bones welcome, a quick unloading of their gear and personal effects, followed by a prompt return to orbit for the dropship. Each trooper's arrival was scanned and entered into the register, and squads and bunks assigned. Possibly by coincidence, the three compatriots were sorted into empty slots in Fourth squad.

Their gear had barely hit the floor of the barracks when they felt a fourth presence. Noncommissioned officers always seemed to enter rooms silently, no matter how against reason this stealth might be. This one was a well-built man in fatigues, with the specific kind of weathered features and stubble that screamed 'sergeant.'

"Names and ranks, troopers," he shouted, snapping all three to attention. Even though each should have towered over him with the height given by their armor, his sheer force of presence managed to dwarf them all.

"Private Joseph Cotton!"

"Lance Corporal Melissa Palmer!"

"Private Joakim Ericson!"

"Now remember your names and forget the ranks," the sergeant continued, "We do things a bit differently here. You're a trooper 'til you're a sergeant, you're a sergeant 'til you're a master sergeant, and you won't be that 'til we need a new one."

With that said, he took a step back and gave a grim smile.

"My name is Rock, and I'm Fourth squad's sergeant. Welcome to Easy Company. The rest of Easy's in the mess hall, so leave your suit here and join 'em." He stopped and fixed his gaze on Cotton.

"Question, trooper?"

"Yessir," Cotton recovered from Rock's apparent mindreading and posed his question, "Who fills in for the COs? You only named noncoms."

"Good ear, trooper. And you're right" Rock nodded, "Technically, the highest rank in Easy is master sergeant. But at the end of the day, every man and woman here has 'convict' hidden in their job description. So like any gang of convicts, we get ourselves a warden."

"A warden, sir?"

"Maybe I complimented your hearing too soon, trooper," Rock turned to leave, "It's news to the rest of us, too. You'll hear it with the rest of Fourth when you join us in the mess."

* * *

Cotton, Palmer, and Ericson settled into three vacant seats, receiving nods from the unfamiliar faces of Fourth squad as they did. There were none of the jabs that often came with being the rookies of a new unit, or the awkwardness of filling in a pair of boots that another man had been quite likely shot out of. In penal companies, replacements were a fairly regular occurrence, and the requirements for admission almost invariably meant that the 'new' soldiers would be combat veterans already. Of the ten members of Fourth squad, two had arrived only a few days before the trio, so fully half the squad was 'new' as far as most soldiers would be concerned. It resulted in an odd sense of equality, albeit for rather morbid reasons.

"Let's get the rumors out of the way. What've you heard already?" Rock shoveled in a mouthful of whatever the prefab mess hall was calling 'food' that day. That said, it was a rare sit-down meal with the entire company present, and they were making the most of it. Similar conversations went on among the other hundred-odd men of Easy Company.

"C'mon, sarge. Bet you know something more than what we do," a slim, fair-haired man by the name of Matthew Dean, coaxed. Next to him, James Hendricks and Marcus Frost (the other two 'rookies' of the squad) tried to avoid looking like they were waiting just as much as Dean was for the answer, neither man doing a very good job of it.

"Then throw something at the wall," Rock said through a mouthful of food, "See if any of it sticks."

"He's an ex-Marine from what I heard," Hendricks put in without hesitation.

"Tough bastard, too," Frost added, "Earned enough Purple Hearts for an entire platoon."

Rock glanced over at other members of Fourth, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"How 'bout you lot?"

"How about this," Melissa Palmer grinned, "I saw some krogan chow when they were unloading ration crates from our dropship. So…"

"The warden is krogan?" Ericson furrowed his brow.

"If he's ex-Corp, I seriously doubt that. But he might be bringing a couple with him," Palmer finished, "A warden's gotta have guards, right?"

"Nice guesses," Rock nodded, "Anyone else got something?"

There was no reply other than a few shrugs or shakes of the head. Kevin Hastings was half listening, half deep in thought, flipping open and shut the cover of a small hydrazine lighter. Most of Easy didn't bother asking what landed their comrades in the penal company, but they assumed he had done something fire-related, and Hastings was unlikely to deny it.

Alex Brodsky was content to listen and absorb the exchange, as was Cotton. Brodsky didn't know anything else that hadn't already been said, and Cotton wasn't eager to make his lack of knowledge a statement for the records. He was impressed that Palmer had noticed the labels of the crates being unloaded alongside them, and knew that it probably meant their pseudo-CO and his crew would be arriving sooner rather than later, but assumed that this would just be stating the obvious.

Last, however, was Robert Kurtz. Though it was in the barracks alongside the rest of the suits, his particular armor was fitted with a variety of medical equipment, with which he'd kept the squad (and in one case, himself) on their feet even under fire. He gained swift fame among the men and women of Easy for taking the gauntlet-mounted surgical saw normally intended for cutting through armor to reach injuries and using it as a brutal close-quarters weapon. The other medics took particular notice.

Still, Kurtz was a quiet man, and much physically bigger than he looked. Alongside Rock, Cotton, and Brodsky, he was one of the longest-standing members of Fourth squad, and had the skills to show it. When he spoke, Fourth tended to listen, not just because of his informal seniority, but also because he picked his sentences like a sharpshooter picked targets: if he had something to say, it tended to have weight behind it.

"You'll find out soon enough," Rock dropped his spoon onto the empty tray, "He's already touched down. I figure he'll be around for a meet 'n greet once he's settled in."

* * *

**One hour earlier  
**

The warden of Easy Company ignored the shaking of the dropship as it passed through Ra'Ghul's atmosphere. He'd been on enough vessels entering and exiting orbit (some of which never intended to do either) that the ride felt more like a commute than anything else. Old habits die hard, though, and he'd split his team up among three ships. It was becoming less and less surprising for him to find out how many 'safe' landing zones turned out to be crawling with enemies, and the batarians had already proven themselves capable of pulling such tricks several times already.

He was, however, growing increasingly frustrated at how hard it was to read his data slate given the dropship's incessant trembling. If he hadn't been strapped in, he would've been thrown around the interior like a ping-pong ball in a dryer, but he still had a job to prepare for, and he'd be damned if he let something as routine as reentry disrupt that.

"What're we shielding?" the guttural voice of a subordinate adjacent to him asked. He was one of three krogan among the warden's team, and easily the greatest warrior among them. He'd give the warden a run for his money, too.

"What do you mean 'what're we shielding'?" the warden asked back, still squinting at the data slate.

"It's close to a full company of powered armor. Not putting that in front of something that needs shielding would be stupid." The warden gave a rare smirk.

"Spot on. We're babysitting some tankers and artillery. Should be no problem," as he finished, the smirk dropped off his face. The krogan wasn't stupid by any means, but it didn't take anything more than a single functioning eye to see the movement.

"Looks to me like you smell a problem."

"Yeah," the warden snorted, "We're landing alongside a covert-ops unit. A team of goddamn Commandos."

"Where's the problem?"

"You've never met one of them," the warden stashed the data slate in one of the pouches of his kit, "I did once, and that bastard couldn't have been human."

"And don't remind me that _you_ aren't human. You know goddamn well what I mean," the warden warned preemptively, "When they put these guys in teams, they can kill entire platoons and make it look like they're performing a bloody dance routine. I've never seen anyone make killing look so goddamn natural."

"What does it matter, then? We're not paid by the head."

"They just creep me the hell out," the warden shrugged against his crash webbing, "I'm guessing they'll go their own way and come back whenever they damn well feel like it. That's how their type usually works."

"Then let 'em," the krogan waved a hand dismissively, "All the better that they'll be taking the stealth ops. It just means we won't have to do any of it ourselves."

"Heh. Good point," the warden flipped through more information before settling on one that caught his eye, "You see the 'eyewitness' report from Ral'dan?"

"No. Anything good?"

"A goddamn treasure trove."

* * *

**Several hours earlier**

Captain Eric Valdez's eyes snapped open, and he sucked in several quick gulps of air. He knew that he'd only just woken up, but he felt as if he'd been holding his breath for the last few minutes of his sleep.

The world around him was blurry, but cleared up as he regained his composure and steadied his breathing. It was a fairly nondescript hospital room, from the look of it, though lacking any sort of actual medical equipment besides the partially inclined bed he lay on. The white walls were unadorned, and the tile floor was spotless, as if it had never been walked on since it was first laid down.

_Captain Valdez? Can you hear me?_

Valdez winced as a voice wormed its way into his ears, but a moment of searching revealed a black speaker box in one corner of the room. He hadn't seen it before, but it made sense for the voice to have an origin.

"I can hear you. Who is this?" he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Curiously, he was still wearing his jumpsuit, even his boots. He couldn't have gotten here long ago if they hadn't even taken his boots off yet.

_My name is Agent Lenew, captain. Your unit took part in the landings on Ral'dan, and I want to know what happened._

"I couldn't say, sir," Valdez didn't know what rank the unseen speaker was, or even if he had any, but it was never a bad idea to default to 'sir' when dealing with InOps agents, "I lost contact with most of the other forces planetside not long after we deployed."

_Of course. But the fleet lost contact with the ground forces, too, and our intelligence thus far is sorely lacking. We'd like to hear what you came across in the field._

"Wouldn't it be easier for me to write up a report?" Valdez asked, "To be frank, I'm sure you've got more important things on your plate than talking to me." He suppressed a slight shiver. The room's temperature had dropped a few degrees.

_Your report is of the utmost importance, captain. I assure you of that. Just go over what happened once you engaged the enemy, what sort of weapons they had, that sort of thing. Can you do that for me?_

"Sure thing," Valdez thought back to the chaotic operation, tracing the sequence of events as best he could, "We landed just fine, but after comms went down, we ran into a battlefield that may as well have been tailored against us."

_How so?_

"There were pits. A lot of them, too. I don't know how they got as many as they did, or how they knew where we'd be, but they'd dug them and covered them up with camo netting. We couldn't move fast without tripping, much less fire on the move. No ground to hold ourselves up on, you see?"

_Of course, captain. Go on._

"It wasn't just those, though. Pits could slow us down, but everyone under my command could get through terrain rougher than that, given extra time. The batarians had mines mixed in with the pits, and heavy guns hidden all around. The worst…" he tucked his hands under his arms, shivering as his breath began to mist in front of his face, "The worst was the flyers. We were sitting ducks when those bombers showed up. There weren't supposed…weren't supposed to be any flyers, much less bombers."

_I know, captain. I know. Please continue._

"I was…I was taking damage," Valdez said, half to himself, trying to remember the later events, "Two of my lance were dead, and the bombers were coming around for another pass-"

_Please focus, captain. Are there any other details of the battlefield you can remember? Besides the pits, emplacements, and mines? Or the bombers?_

"Sorry, sir. That's about it," Valdez's breath came out in thick clouds now, and frost was beginning to creep up the walls and along the floor, "Jesus, it's like a meat locker in here. Why's the heat going so fast?"

_Could you repeat that, captain?_

"I said it's freezing in here," Valdez said through clenched teeth, "And my suit's not doing anything for it. Is there…" He stopped, staring at a trembling hand that was rapidly losing its color before his eyes.

_I'm sorry about the conditions of your…your room, captain. I'll see that it's fixed immediately._

Valdez finally set his feet down and began to move towards the door. He had to pull his boots free of the freezing floor's grip with each step. After a few paces, the door seemed no closer than it had been when he had been in the bed.

"Something…something's wrong," Valdez managed, slumping against a wall and wincing as the cold bit through his jumpsuit like a knife, "I can't…I can't…" He slid to the floor and curled his legs into his chest.

_We're done here. L-_

* * *

"-et him go."

The asari operative withdrew her splayed fingers from either side of the body's head, and her pitch-black eyes returned to their normal state. Behind her, the man called Agent Lenew removed a hand from her shoulder. They were done, and that was that.

The third man in the room wore a uniform, unlike Lenew and the operative. It was a trait he shared partially in common with the body hooked up to a variety of unfamiliar and disturbingly organic-looking technology, but the body only wore half a uniform. The other half was presumably lost along with most of his body below the sternum.

The third man was a Marine colonel, and unlike most officers of his paygrade, hadn't risen to the rank by commission, or even initially by choice. Noncommissioned officers in the GDI Marine Corp were promoted from the ranks, but an unofficial battlefield promotion had stuck and elevated him to his current position. As such, he'd seen planned for the big picture with the experience of a man who had been a part of the small picture.

His role in the events that caused his final promotion had eventually involved more than a few InOps agents, and most of them asked the same questions as their predecessors. It wasn't because InOps was stupid; the fact that each had asked for the exact same information with different questions was obvious enough. The colonel was confident that it was simply a way for InOps to confirm that the details of his testimony wouldn't change with time.

As they said in the Corp, 'On a good day, InOps can tell you that tiberium is green.' But the colonel knew that this couldn't be further from the truth. Their reputation was a holdover from their days of fighting Nod, who were so skilled at deception and misdirection in warfare that the colonel wouldn't have been surprised their founder had co-written Sun Tzu's 'Art of War.'

If anything, InOps had cultivated their image as paranoid to the point of helplessness. Amidst their 'redundant' interviews and deployment of assets, the colonel had never seen one man do the same job twice without knowing that it had already been done at least once before. It was always double, triple, and even quadruple checked. To InOps, 'facts' were anything but factual. They were unverified until proven otherwise, preferably in triplicate.

"That's all we'll get from it," the asari agent, identified earlier as Cara, pulled a pair of dark gloves over her hands, "Are there any others in similar-"

"No," the colonel said flatly, "_He_ was the last one." To put it bluntly, he didn't like asari. Not enough to deliberately impair an InOps investigation, though: if InOps was resorting to alien assistance, they wanted something badly, and the colonel had no interest in standing in the way of it.

"Forgive my colleague's lack of tact, colonel," Lenew gave a joyless smile, "I understand that Captain Valdez was a comrade of yours. You have my condolences."

"No need. He died in the line of duty, through no fault of his. We work with the intel we're given."

If Lenew felt the jab, he didn't show it. Of all the things InOps did _right_, this wasn't one of them: quite a few of their field agents looked like they were wearing otherwise perfect masks, like something out of a spy film, but were concealing something completely inhuman beneath it that didn't quite grasp the root of human emotion.

"Indeed," Lenew nodded, "Agent Cara and I will take our leave, then. Thank you for your cooperation, colonel." The colonel returned the nod purely out of courtesy and opened the door to the hallway. Cara tapped a few commands out on the small keypad strapped to her left arm and a thumb-sized data core popped out into her open palm, which she wordlessly handed over to the colonel.

"And this is…?"

"A...rendition of his last thoughts," Cara paused to pick the appropriate word, "It is difficult to describe a technological replication of an already abstract experience, but as his commanding officer, you are entitled to…" she trailed off as the colonel inserted the core into his omni-tool. The device whirred a moment, then popped the core back out, charred, cracked, and smoking.

"As his former commander, I am entitled to nothing of the sort," the colonel dropped the data core, grinding it into the floor like a cigarette butt, "It's bad enough that you had to do whatever it was you just did, but I'm not going to treat his final thoughts like some sort of data file."

There was a long silence. Lenew was already in the hallway, either oblivious to the conversation or, more likely, doing an excellent job of pretending not to hear. After a moment, the ghost of a smile flashed across Cara's face, and was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"Until next time, colonel."

* * *

Even by the warden's standards, it had been cruel. He'd gotten information before from men whose only relief would been an overdose of painkillers, but the warden could always see from their faces that they welcomed the end. Someone had once said that only in death does duty end, but the warden had stood alongside among many men who had believed death to be an end only _after_ they completed their duty. A thousand times a thousand after-action reports were written in the blood of those who gave them, and the warden had had too many brushes with death himself to forget the men who had dictated them.

"You don't need to say it," he said to the krogan, "The Initiative isn't in a good spot right now. We let an asari into a soldier's mind without his consent, and-"

"-and I'm here," the krogan finished, "Desperate times, desperate measures. I've heard it all my life. You might have to explain yourself to someone else, but the krogan are the last ones you need to justify yourself to."

"To hell with everyone else. And to hell with the rest of the krogan," the warden spat, "I ain't talking to anyone right now except you, Wrex. You ain't some punk fresh off Tunchanka with a sense of entitlement just 'cause he survived when the rest of his brood didn't. If you were, you'd be Blood Pack."

"Don't think I didn't consider those offers," Urdnot Wrex replied, "They're still trying to contact me. Apparently as the 'official' head of clan Urdnot, I'm worth the extra effort."

"Then let 'em," the warden laughed, momentarily forgetting the contents of the data-slate, "Let every goddamn one of 'em come and see if they can live long enough to make an offer. I wouldn't mind seeing how many left Tuchanka before it even got a chance to show its teeth."

"_Dropsite's coming into view, chief_," the pilot's voice interrupted, "_Two minutes to landing._"

"Good," Zaeed Massani stowed the data slate, "About time I got to meet the rabble I'll be leading across this shithole."

* * *

**Codes - Global Defense Initiative - Penal Companies**

_After the disastrous five-pronged offensive into Hegemony space, the Initiative found itself with a military out for blood and a galaxy of onlookers trying to justify their belief that the newest addition to the galactic stage was nothing more than a race of spacefaring barbarians. Ultimately, the decision was made to relegate those guilty of more egregious crimes against their new enemy to penal companies. _

_The result was more than satisfactory: GDI was able to maintain an image of strict discipline to both its more liberal members and the galaxy at large, and simultaneously keep its most 'enthusiastic' troops on frontline duty in a war that was becoming an unexpectedly heavy resource-sink. During the early months of the war, it seemed a perfect solution to their problems.  
_

* * *

**And that's chapter three. Read 'n review, anon accepted, same deal as usual. **


	4. Rolling Thunder

**June 12, 2181**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul  
**

**Hegemony territory**

Four soldiers drifted through the batarian compound. Three times they moved within sight of guards, and three times they went unnoticed. The guards returned to their patrols, none the wiser and with their lives intact.

Two other sentries were not so fortunate. They were both experienced soldiers, and knew how to override the mind's innate ability to not see what it did not expect to see. Both saw motion in the corners of their eyes, and both moved their heads slightly too quickly to conceal their discovery.

The first died with a short metal bolt stuck between his eyes. In the time that it took his body to realize that it was dead, one of the four had appeared beside him to silence the fall of his body.

The second had seen two of the four, and his fatal mistake had been not seeing the other two. Even as his eyes widened and his lungs drew breath to raise the alarm, an armored gauntlet clamped over his mouth and a knife pierced the side of his throat, silencing their voices and bisecting an artery. A few seconds later, and the body was removed from sight.

The four carried powerful rifles, but slung under each barrel was a simple bolt-thrower. It could reliably pierce virtually most infantry armor at short range, and it was silent as a whisper, unlike their rifles. Suppressors were only useful in an active warzone, and they weren't eager to turn the compound into one for at least a few more minutes. It was a worthwhile trade to maintain their cover.

The four each noted the timers in the corner of their HUDs. Ten minutes and counting. It gave them precious little time to finish their mission, but for GDI Commandos, it was time enough. They split into pairs, each with their assigned duty.

The first pair, Atkins and Liddell. They continued until the clamorous noise of a vehicle depot reached a fever pitch. With quick, simultaneous nods of acknowledgement, they split again. Each of the two had enough explosives to bring down a reasonably-sized building, and what they had in mind wouldn't require nearly that much finesse.

The second pair, Kadigan and Hong. They found their own targets: artillery pieces, silent without their crews to man them. They did not carry as much high explosive as their comrades, but their tools better suited their purposes. They set to work immediately.

Seven minutes and counting.

Lying beneath a batarian tank, Liddell linked her second set of explosives to its trigger. Atkins had been moving slightly faster and was already priming his third. Both of them could have set a dozen of the devices by now, had it not been for the maintenance crews that still milled about the depot. It would have been nice if they had more time to work, but the batarians were by no means amateurs in their trade. They were soldiers who knew what parts belonged in their vehicles and what didn't, and even the comparatively small explosive devices would go swiftly noticed by anyone who happened across them.

One crewman who had done just that was currently lying in the pit below a slightly-raised tank. His throat had been cut so deeply that it had left him nearly decapitated. Liddell was close enough to ensure that his discovery would die with him.

Four minutes and counting.

Kadigan and Hong did not have the luxury of splitting up as Atkins and Liddell did. The artillery pieces were largely exposed to the general view of the compound, and one man needed to keep on watch while the other worked.

It was quick work, and only three of the ten pieces were 'ready' by the time their clocks told them to move on, but the three were spaced along the row of ten as evenly as they could be. They'd do just fine.

Two minutes and counting.

A few shouts were rising across the compound, but the Commandos knew that it wasn't a sign that they'd been caught. The batarians had merely seen the bulk of the attack force, which wasn't trying to hide. It was near impossible to conceal the movement of any GDI attack force past a certain size, and sometimes it helped to portray their forces as big, clumsy, and obvious.

Atkins and Liddell, Kadigan and Hong…they were part of the attack force, to be sure, but they were the silent vanguard. They could each inflict substantial casualties on their own, but what good was that when their abilities could be used so much more effectively? A wounded force fights far differently than an unwounded one, and it was the Commandos' job to make sure the batarians entered battle without realizing how wounded they already were.

All they had to do was hide, survive, and wait. It only took one of them to open those wounds.

One minute and counting.

* * *

Zaeed Massani led from the front. It was not something that was up for debate. And to his concealed pleasure, the people who had put him in charge of Easy Company didn't challenge him on it. Sure, it might've been because they didn't consider him an irreplaceable asset, but it didn't matter to him. It got him what he wanted, and that was that.

"All units, get yourselves ready," he said from the passenger seat of his command APC, "Word is they've got armor, and I wouldn't stake my life on some cloak-and-dagger Commando nonsense to take them all down, so we're doing this the old fashioned way." The Guardian Armored Personnel Carrier had been refitted for its role, but still remained the rugged, eight-wheeled monster that could shrug off blows that some tanks would've been hard-pressed to survive.

The eight squads of Easy responded quickly and enthusiastically. Even heavy tanks didn't seem like a threat when most of the power armored troopers were hitching rides atop the two-dozen Predator MBTs that had been dispatched from the 12th Armored Battalion to aide them. Their commanders gave their affirmatives after the infantry.

"How's the weather up there, _Sandman_?" Zaeed asked nonchalantly as he checked his gear once final time. The reply crackled in his earpiece a moment later.

"_Nothing but clear skies, Easy Actual. Let us know if you need us._"

"Understood. Easy Actual out," Zaeed switched his attention to the looming compound ahead of them. A few shells had been fired out in their direction, but they'd either overshot the GDI formation or detonated harmlessly ahead. Zaeed knew that it wouldn't be that way for much longer.

"Easy, I want you on foot when we hit the hundred meter line. If you're thinking about finding religion, you've got about sixty seconds to do it."

* * *

At the first sign of human forces on their scanners, the Hegemony soldiers were already scrambling to prepare a warm reception. They had numbers on their side, but human vehicles and infantry alike had the alarming tendency to keep pushing long past the point they ought to have been dead, and the Hegemony troops were mustering all the firepower they had at their disposal.

Squad Commander Nale Sha'goth joined his comrades in bringing the ten 'Longshot' artillery pieces to bear on the distant formation. Half the practice of an artillery crew was dedicated to forcing down the time between which they could turn an inert gun into an active one, and Nale's crew was no exception. Eighteen seconds passed once they had reached the line of guns, and then their gunners were already feeding coordinates to the targeting VIs.

Tanks rolled out of their bays, shaking the ground beneath their treads even as the Longshots fired their first volley. There was a ripple of thunder suppressed by Nale's sealed helmet, and arcs of death screamed from the barrels and into the distance.

"No hits. Adjusting coordinates," the gunner announced, not mincing words. Nale gritted his teeth, but it was a regular enough phenomena. For all the 'advanced' hardware supposedly crammed into the guns, Hegemony-produced artillery always seemed to need a shot or two to find their range. But their firepower was undeniable: a barrage from a battery of ten Longshots could level a city block. A rangefinding shot was worth the devastation that inevitably followed.

"Fire!"

* * *

Liddell lay next to the corpse of a support crewman, both Commando and corpse hidden in the darkness of the closed vehicle lift. She had more than enough time to adjust to the near-total lack of light. Even if she hadn't, her helmet had some of the most advanced nightvision and infrared filters available to the GDI military.

She didn't use any of them. All that mattered was the sound of heavy guns above her. The tanks were already rolling out, but she needed to hear the artillery pieces before she could trigger the detonation sequence.

_Was it worth it, human?_

The lifeless eyes stared without seeing. Liddell didn't respond. She had long since learned not to respond to the goads of dead men.

_Was your life worth his?_

Liddell forced her attention to the sounds of battle. The floor vibrated slightly as a rumble, louder than the rest, asserted itself. The ugly red gash across the crewman's throat continued to grin at Liddell.

_Would he have warned you if he'd known what you'd become?_

Liddell let her HUD confirm what she'd already guessed by matching the sound with the existing recordings of various batarian artillery pieces. The wouldn't fire a second time. Liddell's finger drifted over the red stud of the small silver detonator.

_Would he have given his life for a killer?_

Her only response was a soft _click_, followed by a series of explosions that shook dust from the ceiling onto her hiding spot. It was answer enough.

* * *

Nale blinked to clear his eyes, but the cloud that obscured his vision refused to dissipate. Breathing was hard, and he couldn't hear anything but an incessant ringing.

The world slowly came back into focus, albeit sideways and cracked. Nale blinked once more, finally realizing that he was seeing through only half of his visor. He moved an arm to push himself up, but the limb refused to move. He winced as a shower of dirt fell on him. It subsided after a few seconds, and a figure stumbled into his fixed field of vision.

Nale couldn't tell who it was, but saw that he was wearing the scorched colors of the artillery unit. He was limping badly, and Nale saw why: one of his legs was burnt so badly that bone showed through in spots, and one of his arms was wrapped around his abdomen. Deep crimson blood stained the arm, and Nale absently wondered if that arm was all that held in the wounded soldier's guts.

The soldier turned his head towards Nale. His expression was the blank look of a man who saw everything in front of him, but didn't truly see it for what it was. That look vanished along with his upper torso, cleaved off by a tank shell pursuing a target further down-range. The legs and waist collapsed shortly after, almost as if they had to take the time to realize there was nothing left for them to support.

Suddenly, Nale's perspective moved. The sky filled his vision before another face appeared, right in front of his own and upside-down. The upper half was concealed by a reflective visor, but the exposed mouth was shouting something lost to the ringing in Nale's ears. It shouted again, then looked up, then back down to Nale.

Again, Nale's perspective moved. He was suddenly sitting upright, staring in the direction that the guns had been firing. A pair of hands were barely visible under each of his arms, and he began to slide backwards.

Enemy armor were in view. None of them were their dreaded superheavy tanks as far as Nale's limited vision could see, but it brought him little comfort. These were smaller, much lower to the ground. Nale remembered seeing them in briefings, but they were generally written off as non-threats compared to their bigger cousins.

Even at a distance, they seemed much larger now.

Nale's head tipped back as the soldier pulling him stopped, just in time to see three Hegemony-colored A-58 Mantis gunships scream overhead towards the driving foe. Their chin-mounted mass accelerators fired nonstop, but it was the appearance of a fourth gunship that had prompted the soldier to stop.

To Nale, the crash was unremarkable. Curiously, nothing seemed to surprise him at the moment, even the sight of a blazing aircraft plowing into the ground a scant twenty meters in front of him. After a moment, retaliatory fire spat from either side of him, presumably from batarian troopers Nale's nerveless neck didn't angle for him to see.

The dragging started again, and Nale's head lolled forward. First, he saw the ruins of the artillery line that had seen in pristine order just moments before. Then he saw himself.

He should have been shocked by the damage to his body, but his mind was simultaneously delirious and crystal clear. Like the dead man further and further away from him, he saw everything, yet grasped none of it. One of his legs was gone completely below the knee. The other hung on by a few sinews halfway up the thigh, dragging along with him at an impossible angle.

As he watched, his boot caught on a piece of smoking tank-tread. Nale didn't even feel the tug as the leg stayed in place while he continued to drag.

His left arm hadn't responded to his earlier prompts because it, too, was missing. His right arm was in mockingly good shape, nearly untouched save for the soot and grime. The general sense of numbness was almost laughable, in the same way that laughing gas could make a person guffaw without so much as a twinge of humor.

"-_here! We need those reinforcements! We're getting cut to shreds down h-_"

His sensory priorities, and his thoughts, were being shuffled like a deck of cards, rearranging themselves at random. Maybe this was shock. Nale had never suffered an injury bad enough to risk it before, and there was a first time for everything. His father had lost a finger while working at a spaceport loading dock. Maybe he'd felt something like-

"_-are inbound to your location. Standby for armor support and medivac in-_"

Tired. He felt tired now. Wasn't that a part of shock? Something about…not sleeping? Or…was it…

* * *

It felt good to have his boots on solid ground. Zaeed Massani rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, reveling in the battle that was rapidly outpacing his stationary command APC.

Easy Company practically ran itself. They hadn't gotten booted his way because they were bad at being soldiers, that much was certain. He'd half-expected to be playing the part of the commissar, but they were performing quite well without his prompting. His last command had ended…poorly, to say the least, but by the standards set by the present-day Blue Suns, Easy Company was a picture of discipline.

The only thing resembling a downside was something that Zaeed considered a boon: their 'enthusiasm.' An overwhelming amount of comm chatter was boasting, profanity, or outright laughter. His position afforded him access to live feeds from any trooper's helmet cam, and if they got within arm's reach of an enemy trooper, they rarely ever fired their guns.

It probably helped that Vido had filled the Blue Suns with batarians. It made the sound of bones cracking so goddamn _cathartic._ A few months of watching revenge-fantasies play out on demand and he might even forget the grudge against his former partner.

Well, let's not get _too_ carried away.

"How're we doing, Wrex?" Zaeed closed off the general chatter and focused himself. Easy as it might seem, he had a job to do, and he was the best.

"_No problems with the garrison. Those Commandos did a number on 'em. Took down at least five tanks and a row of artillery before we even got within reach._" There was a grunt, followed by a muffled _crunch_.

"_That's it for here. We moved a bit out of formation to catch stragglers, but-_" Static buzzed through the line for a few seconds.

"Gotta speak up, Wrex. I'm no mind reader."

"_There's a column of enemy vehicles on their way here. You still got that air support on call?_" It sounded like the krogan was grinning. How Zaeed knew, he could only guess.

"Goddamn right I do."

* * *

From the ground, the ACS-240 'Nightmare,' callsign _Sandman_, would have been barely visible, even without the smoke cloud building over the battlefield. Few things short of high-powered telescopes could have seen the movement along its underbelly, but even the naked eye could see the glint that heralded what was to come.

"_Coordinates received, Easy Actual. Payload inbound._"

* * *

Observer Geralt Nar'Koru cursed as his rifle overheated. The humans had managed to snatch every conceivable advantage from them in mere seconds. Seven tanks had exploded without so much as a shot from the enemy armor. And their battery of Longshot artillery, which could have at least bloodied the human tanks before they entered their minimum range, erupted in flames after a single volley. There was no doubt in Geralt's mind that they'd fallen victim to sabotage, but the facility's infiltration seemed a minor problem now.

"Observer! Friendlies coming up behind us!" a soldier shouted over the steady roar of a two-man portable assault cannon. Their little bastion had less than forty men out of the two companies who'd been stationed here. Most of the other soldiers were either scattered across the area or, more likely, already dead. The shortage of troops and officers was so dire that Geralt, technically attached only as a political officer, was forced to take command.

"Meet them halfway! We can't stay here!" Geralt replied, slapping the side of his rifle as it finally winked green again, "Move and fire! Go!"

At their current range, the GDI troops were using powerful but thankfully slow-firing weapon modules. Hegemony hardsuits could weather one or two shots before losing their shields, and after that they were only good for protection against shrapnel. The powered-armor gave the human troopers much better firing platforms, too, while Geralt's men had to settle for old-fashioned fire discipline to ensure that _any_ of their return fire found its mark.

A pair of Mantis gunships screamed over their heads, temporarily driving the Zone troopers into cover with a spray of automatic fire.

"Hold here until I say the word!" Geralt shouted. It wasn't much, but they had enough cover to hunker down behind and brace themselves. Already, the assault cannon crew was setting up again. Geralt knew how heavy the weapon was and took mental note to give both men commendations for not abandoning the bulky weapon and relying on their folded rifles. It was one of their only weapons that could consistently keep the Zone troopers at a 'safe' distance and buy them time to move.

The friendly units that merged with them, however, were in sorry shape. The extra men would've been a blessing under any other circumstance, but too many of them were walking wounded, and several were mangled so badly that they needed the near-constant attendance of three clearly overtaxed medics.

"You from the Longshot battery, soldier?" Geralt grabbed ahold of the man who seemed to be directing the others as soon as he came within arm's reach. The trooper's armor was beaten and filthy, but it wasn't a sign of age or poor maintenance. Those spots not rent by battle were almost immaculately clean.

"Yessir," the soldier nodded, gesturing to the other arrivals, "About half of us are, sir. The rest are infantry."

"And the wounded?"

"Them?" the soldier looked over in confusion, "What about them?"

"Didn't they slow you down?"

"N-yessir, but that…that couldn't be helped." Geralt stared at the soldier's eyes for a few moments, then continued.

"Give me your name, trooper."

"Trooper Kine Greggor, sir!"

"At least for now, it's squad-commander," Geralt used his override codes and a few quick motions on his omni-tool to grant the battlefield promotion, "Those men who can still fight are under your command."

"Heads up! Medivac, coming in hot!"

Geralt didn't see who shouted, but he could certainly see the ship it was bringing to his attention. The medivac was part of the Mantis series, bulkier and longer than its gunship cousins, and lacked the dumb-fire rockets that filled out the A-58's weaponry. That didn't stop it from drawing fire from the GDI soldiers, sending streaks of blue ion beams and railgun blasts into its hull. To Geralt's alarm, the shots were all striking metal. Its barriers were down. Even just concentrated fire from the heavier rifles of the Zone troopers could potentially bring down such a comparatively light craft.

"Assault gun! Give that bird some cover!" Geralt shouted, switching his rifle from single-shot to fully automatic. It wouldn't stand much chance of hitting anything at this range, but it would at least force the GDI troops to duck back down, and suppression was generally the purpose of automatic fire anyway.

The assault cannon swiveled and roared, pouring out close to a hundred rounds per second at the enemy soldiers. One bulky trooper was caught in its fire. His barriers, already weakened, shattered, and even his thick armor proved useless against the heavy support gun.

"_Thanks for the save,_" the pilot's voice came through ragged, "_Get your wounded ready to load. We can't stay for long._"

"Understood," Geralt responded, gesturing to make sure that Kine was listening to the transmission, too, "We'll keep you covered best we can. Any word on reinforcements?"

"_There's a convoy en route, but we lost contact a few minutes back,_" the pilot began his descent, side doors already opening, "_Probably all the damn ion particles in the-oh shit! Pull up! Pull up!_"

The nose of the medivac rose sharply, but not quickly enough. A blurred projectile slammed into its hull, exploding out the other side and sending the ship into a smoking tailspin that was arrested only by collision with one of the vehicle bays. Geralt couldn't be sure if it was ammunition left in the bay or the ship's fuel cells (or possibly both), but an explosion gutted what remained of the vehicle bay, eliminating what slim chance there was of the pilot or co-pilot surviving.

"Enemy armor!"

The loss of their medivac didn't even have time to sink in. Its killer was already pulverizing a roadblock under its treads. The Predator MBT: GDI's so-called 'light' tank. It was only light as an alternative to the superheavy Mammoth, and it had more than enough firepower to hold its own against all but the heaviest tanks in the Hegemony arsenal.

Now, its turret was turning back towards the ground, squarely at Geralt's rag-tag group.

"Fall back! Rendezvous with-" The last of Geralt's order was lost to the roar of the tank's cannon, sending up a cloud of broken pavement and the remains of three soldiers. Geralt's helmet started to screech in his ears until he ripped it off and threw it aside. The audio-filters had been blown out of the close proximity of the explosion, and his ears were still ringing.

His eyes still worked, however, and he could only watch as the tank drew a bead on him.

* * *

Sergeant Joel Ward watched a survivor stumbled from the impact of the shell. Eye pressed to the viewfinder of the tank's main gun, he vowed rectify the batarian's 'survivor' status.

The 12th Armored Company was pushing through the batarian troops with virtually no trouble. A few anti-tank launchers had appeared, but nowhere near in the frequency needed to actually pose a threat. Ward had a dozen infantry kills under his belt already, and at least three more to add once they finished with this group.

Ward cursed as his view was suddenly filled with concrete dust and debris, and the tank shook with the aftershocks of nearby impacts.

"It's one of those damn Mantis," PFC Morris called from her monitor, "Painting it for anti-air to deal with."

"_Caution: incoming hostile armor._"

Ward saw the new target even as the EVA's monotone pointed it out. The batarian retreat had brought them directly into the path of one of their tanks. It was a clunky, ungainly thing, even by GDI standards. Initiative tanks may have been hulks, but there was a deliberate sense of structure and design in that bulk. The batarian tank, inversely, reeked of cheap mass-production, and even if physically larger than Ward's Predator, was probably carrying only marginally more armor at the cost of various more advanced systems.

"Switching target," Ward announced, swiveling the turret to face the new threat. It fit neatly into his crosshairs.

"Firing."

The shell screamed downrange, striking the batarian tank's front armor and detonating. To Ward's surprise, the batarian tank's barriers held up. Surprise turned to anxiety as its own cannon turned to face the Predator.

"Load anti-armor," he ordered, triggering a burst from the coaxial mass accelerator. It wouldn't cause any noticeable damage, but it would at least distract the enemy tank.

* * *

"_Fall back, gun team! That's an order!_"

Barth Gor'Tale glanced over at Thule Skaarson. Defying direct orders from an Observer was an offense punishable by summary execution. Then again, given their current plans, it wouldn't matter much.

"You ready?"

"Born ready," Thule punctuated his reply by slamming on the firing studs of the assault cannon. The high-caliber gun roared, barrels whirling as it hurled death towards the human tank. The weapon was intended to decimate infantry and, at most, light vehicles, but never something at the level of a GDI tank.

But in a split-second decision, Barth and Thule had seen one of their own tanks clash with its GDI equivalent and known that it wouldn't last long without support. Lacking any actual anti-tank gear, they fell back on the next best thing: their heavy support gun.

The heavy rounds didn't have a prayer of piercing the Predator's armor, but that was never their intention. Their tank could do that (hopefully), but not as long as the Predator's barriers were standing. _That_ was their target, and the assault cannon was devouring the barriers just as planned.

Of course, the two soldiers were no fools. They knew the price of bringing an infantry-portable weapon to a tank fight. The Predator's coaxial gun swiveled to face them. Mass accelerator fire engulfed their position, burrowing into the thick barriers they'd taken as cover.

Barth died first, a neat hole punched through his helmet. He crumpled without a sound.

Thule did not go so quietly. He was knocked back from his gun, feeling lost in his left arm. Two rounds had pierced his bicep and shoulder, likely fatal wounds if he didn't lie low and wait for a medic to-

"No!" he screamed, pushing aside the corpse of his friend and comrade and grabbing the weapon with his remaining arm.

He managed one last, long burst from the assault cannon before a flurry of mass accelerator fire pierced his chest, sending him to the ground for the second and final time.

* * *

"_Caution: barriers at 13%_."

"Shut up already!" Wards shouted, triggering the newly-loaded shell. The anti-armor shell struck the batarian tank, shattering its barriers and punching through its front armor in one stroke.

Wards breathed a sigh of relief. That was one bullet dodged. Morris and Haveson gave one another a nervous but nonetheless relieved glance.

"Alright, get reserve capacitors to-"

Fire erupted from the barrel of the wounded batarian tank. The Predator's weakened barriers broke, and its armor failed against the heavy-grade shell. An instant later, the shell exploded, devouring the crew and sending up a fireball that forced the Zone troopers it had been supporting back into cover.

* * *

"_Got it!_" the batarian tanker sounded as surprised as he did pleased at the kill. Wounded as it was, the Stromgald heavy tank began to roll backwards, covering the infantry whose lives it had just saved.

"Not to sound ungrateful, _Hammerfall_, but there's a lot more where that came from," Geralt signaled the squad-commanders, and the withdrawal continued, "Your markings are from the Car'shen garrison. Where's the rest of your group? We were expecting reinforcements."

"_We've got two more tanks and a handful of LAVs, Observer,_" the tanker's voice crackled in Geralt's earpiece, "_There were more, but_ _we got hit bad on our way here. We're all that's left._"

Geralt's mind churned. Observers weren't strictly intended to order troop movement, but the squad commanders were just that: squad commanders. He was, for all intents and purposes, the highest-ranking officer on sight, political or not. They were following his orders, whether he liked it or not.

"We've got a lot of wounded, some of whom can't move on their own. Can any of those LAVs fix that?"

"_We've got three Rumbler APCs, sir. Continue on your current path, and they'll make contact in two minutes._"

"How's your own speed?"

"_Dropping. It'll get a lot worse a lot faster if we try and speed up. That last shot tore a hole in our right tracks. Any faster than this and we'll break ourselves down on the spot._"

"Understood," Geralt acknowledged simply. There was little else to say to a crew of men who were likely going to sell their lives within the hour. He waved his omni-tool in the tank's direction, reading the data as it came in to him.

"You will be remembered, _Hammerfall_."

"_Thank you, sir_," the tank commander sounded relieved, even given the circumstances. Geralt knew why, of course. From birth, citizens of the Hegemony were taught that the Hegemony was a vast machine, a machine in which they were only the teeth of gears. But to win recognition from an Observer, one of the eyes of the Hegemony government, was to be immortalized. It was more than mere glorification: they had personally strengthened the entire Hegemony with their performance in the face of great duress.

"Keep it moving," Geralt said across open channels, "The _Hammerfall_ will here so that we may fight another day and return our wounded to service. Do _not_ dishonor their sacrifice with failure."

The enthusiastic chorus of affirmatives lifted a heavy weight off Geralt's shoulders. They weren't out of the woods yet, but the resolve of Hegemony soldiers rivaled that of even the Turian Hierarchy. Turians may be famed across the galaxy for standing to face impossible odds, but the Hegemony's military followed its orders, no matter what. He had no doubt in his mind that the _Hammerfall_ would not meet its end with honor, knowing that their superiors had believed it necessary.

And therein lay the greatest strength of the Batarian Hegemony: faith. There was religion, to be sure, but rivaling it was the prevailing belief that no matter what, the Hegemony always had its reasons, and to doubt those reasons was tantamount to heresy.

* * *

"_Sandman, _report."

"_Convoy destroyed, Easy actual. A few slipped our aim, but it shouldn't be anything you can't handle with the 12__th__ supporting._"

"Copy that, _Sandman_," Zaeed closed the channel, taking a long sniff of the air. The essence of war floated in the air. It had been too long since he'd seen a _real_ war.

"Smells like victory."

* * *

**June 13, 2181**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul  
**

**Hegemony territory  
**

Amidst the cheers of Easy Company, Joe Cotton smashed the empty container to the ground, raising his fists in victory. His opponent was doubled over, alternating between laughing and retching.

"The winner, at fucked-if-I-know pounds and who-gives-a-shit ounces, Guts, from Rock's Fourth!" the 'moderator' of the contest, one of the Warden's men, held up Cotton's arm as if he had just won a prize fight, "A full bottle of batarian ale, down and not back up!"

"What, there's no prize?" Cotton shouted over the din.

"Sure, Guts: when yer brain's leaking outta your head tomorrow, you might get some sympathy!" Cotton couldn't tell who responded from the crowd, but most comments were being met with similar responses: cheering and more drinking. His defeated opponent gave him a thumbs-up before leaning over to heave again. Cotton slapped a hand on his shoulder as he jumped from the makeshift platform, pushing past congratulating troops until he found more familiar faces and voices.

"So you have nickname now, yes?" Joakim offered the new arrival a half-empty bottle of human-made liquor. Cotton accepted it, taking a quick swig before handing it back. Even if it had an aftertaste like drinking burnt-cork, it was better than the batarian liquor.

"Y' could do a lot worse 'n Guts," Matthew Dean slurred from his seat on a supply crate, "'S a good 'un." He gestured vaguely at Frost and Hendricks, the latter of whom was alternating between consciousness and unconsciousness, a head propped against his companion's shoulder.

"They were easy. Jus' Frost 'n Jimmy. I mean, fuckin' _Jimmy Hendricks_. That's almos' cheatin'."

"What about you?" Cotton asked.

"Fuck you. I'm jus' Matt. Or Dean. Or Dean-o. Or…" He continued to rattle off names that resembled his own less and less as Palmer arrived, tossing an arm over Cotton's shoulder to grab his attention and grab herself support, dangling a bottle in her off hand.

"Guts, huh? Nice t' meetcha. I'm Legs."

"I've seen three guys without pants tonight, an' none of 'em was you," Cotton dredged up a slightly-more sober memory, "An' I _know_ it ain't cos you're a girl. Tha's too easy, and you'd kill the first sonuvabitch who called you that." The two staggered some distance from the group, finding a clear patch in the battlefield-turned-bivouac that seemed detached from the noise the rest of the company was making.

"It's easier than 'Leg-ah-cy,'" against the best efforts of her own tongue, Palmer managed to sound out the word, "Followed my momma's footsteps right into Zone armor." They plopped onto the ground, propping themselves against a wall left standing where the original building hadn't.

"Heavy Infantry too, huh?"

"Yeah," Palmer took a drink from her bottle, "She was on Shanxi, y'know. Back in the First Contact War, fightin' the bir…the turians." She stared at the bottle for a few seconds before Cotton plucked it from her fingers. She didn't stop him.

"Must've been proud of you, goin' into the service," Cotton snorted bitterly, "More'n I can say 'bout my folks."

"I dunno. She was always proud of her time, but...Shanxi. It messed her up. I could tell," she said quietly, "It was whenever guys from her old company met up. They'd drink an' laugh like they were tellin' just any other war stories, but sometimes they'd just stop. An' that silence hurt 'em, I could tell. Just a fuckin' kid, an' I could tell."

The bottle stopped halfway to Cotton's lips. Palmer was crying. She looked no different than how she had a moment before, but he could see the light reflect off the tears running down her cheeks.

"There was one guy who was always quiet. Talked a little, drank a bit, but never seemed to be into it like the rest were," Palmer continued, "One year, he jus' didn't show up with the rest. He wasn't that old. Younger than mosta them, in fact. When I asked 'bout him, mom said he couldn't make it," Palmer gave a short, humorless laugh, "I was a stupid kid, but I saw the looks they gave each other. I was smart enough not to ask 'bout him next time."

"That's why I was never sure if she really wanted me to join up. Heavy Infantry gave 'er some of the best years of her life, the best of friends, too, but Shanxi was the first war we had with aliens since the damn Scrin, and look how it turned out. I think...I think it changed the service for her. Far as I know, I'm the only family she's got, an' there she was, congratulatin' me on gettin' my armor and goin' off to fight aliens like she did, and the whole time, she had that look in her eyes like she was scared shitless that I'd go off and end up jus' like she did."

Cotton took a drink in silence. Drunk as he was, he knew that he didn't have anything to say in response.

In later days, he would dimly remember thinking that Palmer had been speaking almost as if he weren't there, like it was some sort of monologue to an empty theater. If she remembered telling him after tonight, fine. But if she only remembered talking to an empty theater, he didn't want to be the one to deny her that.

* * *

**June 13, 2181**

**Location: Unknown  
**

In the darkness of his private quarters, Unit Commander Balak Ka'hairal watched video after video of GDI forces in action. Not propaganda vids, of course. Those were useless to him, regardless of which side they were coming from. The humans painted themselves as warrior-kings, riding to battle atop limitless legions of gleaming tanks. The Hegemony's Department of Information Control, on the other hand, opted to paint them as burly apes, firing clunky cannon-rifles skyward as they clung to the sides of ramshackle war machines.

Balak ignored them both. They represented the enemy as they saw themselves and the enemy as the higher-ups wanted his fellow troops in the field to see them, respectively. It hadn't taken long for Info Control to put a different spin on their enemy after seeing the effects that human forces left in their wake. Insulting an enemy with barbarism was all well and good until they get onto the battlefield. Then, barbarism becomes a feared reputation.

It was a reputation well deserved, if the vids were any sign. They tended to choose their battles and make every victory one for the record books. Nothing was left to chance with the GDI.

Nothing left to chance, Balak observed, unless they were sure they had already won. Ral'dan was proof enough of that. After enjoying easy victories against pirate rabble on their trip through the Verge and claiming a few sparsely defended worlds, they thought they had met all that the Hegemony had to offer.

Most recent propaganda had been taken from Ral'dan. Info Control had plenty to work with, and even more that they could re-cut or outright edit to supply new images and vids as needed. At his rank, Balak didn't need to worry about being given touched-up videos. Squad Commanders, maybe, and certainly the rank-and-file, but his view of the battlefield was deemed too important to be colored by the lens of propaganda. When the troops received word of a strategic withdrawal, he received a report with numbers and up-to-date army maps to let him decide the outcome's status for himself.

A lot of pirates in the Verge were too frightened of GDI to attack ships bearing the Initiative's colors, and too skeptical of images provided by the Hegemony of any Initiative defeats. It was all too easy to take a picture of the wreckage of a human ship while leaving out of view the half-dozen batarian vessels that had died to destroy it.

But Balak Ka'hairal was a name trusted and known by many a pirate captain, and there were enough of them to make those who didn't know Balak personally to afford him considerable sway. A good officer can make a very good pirate, and Balak's days as a Hegemony 'liason' to the various 'independent contractors' that wandered the Verge had given him a useful reputation.

The pirates were afraid of GDI ships, but Balak had seen enough footage of them fighting for their lives to know which had guns, how many guns there were, and how frequently they could fire. Most GDI-emblazoned ships had guns, to be sure, but knowing if they were fixed-direction guns was invaluable to a pirate captain who had more than one ship at his disposal.

Balak paused the videos to compose the message. Only text, no voice or image communication. The latter expressed an urgency that the Hegemony might have felt but Balak had no intention of conveying. When pirates thought of themselves as important, they tended to equate that with being irreplaceable, and Balak hated dealing with people who thought they were irreplaceable. It tended to end in bloodshed and, fittingly enough, replacement.

The information he was sending out would be enough to push some captains into action, but a few needed a bit more than just that. Being an officer in the Hegemony armed forces made 'contacts' in Batarian State Arms unnecessary. He could get anything from them short of starships. It had been long-since assumed that whatever he requisitioned off-the-books would be put to good use.

BSA provided weapons and equipment that worked…mostly…though not always for as long as your average soldier or, more importantly, pirate would want to it. As a result…

A communication blinked on his screen. An example waiting to happen.

"_Balak_."

"Krieg," Balak nodded to the krogan head that appeared on screen. Unlisted cells of the Blood Pack operating in the Verge were fairly regular customers to BSA, given the rate at which vorcha burned through their gear (often as their krogan commanders burned through them). It helped that the more specialized weapons from BSA tended to do particularly grotesque things to their targets, which was always a plus from a vorcha's point of view.

"_You sound like you're expecting me_."

"Because I know you're smart," Balak only half-lied. Krieg was smart, but not particularly clever, "You got my data, and you want to make sure you're going in with enough firepower to make it count."

"_Damn right I do_," Krieg snorted, clearly pleased by the apparent compliment, "_Going after__ human ships has become a dangerous business. More so than usual Wouldn't want to expose my troops to unneeded risk._" Balak knew krogan humor when he heard it and made a point to give an audible chuckle. Krieg smirked.

"Fair. You want some dangerous looking guns to keep morale high, right?"

"_Looks like we're both mind readers. What've you got?_"

"Depends what you're using now," Balak pulled up a weapon manifest from his BSA supplier with an unseen twitch of a finger.

"_Mostly Elkoss Combine stuff. They aren't much, but you can put them in a vorcha's claws and still count on them to work._" Balak didn't doubt him. Some people tried to pad their current equipment to get better upgrades from Balak, but again, even if he wasn't clever, Krieg was smart. He knew not to try and bluff with someone like Balak.

"I can arrange for Terminator rifles and Executioner shotguns. They have about the same bite as your current load, but they've got a much better bark."

"_Not bad_."

"I can do better," Balak went on, "How'd you like some flame and toxin kits to come with them?"

"_I think I'd like that a lot_," Krieg's smirk grew into a full grin, "_How soon?_"

"Three days. Transport will have the usual signal."

"_Pleasure doing business with you, Balak_."

"Same to you," Balak tilted his head slightly, "How soon can I expect results?"

"_Five days. Gotta give the roaches some time to appreciate their new toys, and get a few more of the boys in on this. It's risky hitting human ships these days, Balak. I don't need to remind you of that._"

"That's why you have people like me, Krieg: to provide the reward for that risk," Balak hit a few more command keys, "And here's a little something else. Call it an advance on your first commission."

"_Chem throwers?_" Krieg looked at the incoming data feed on a screen off-camera, "_You're in deep shit, aren't you?_" Balak cursed internally. He might've shown a bit too much of his hand.

"You're a regular customer, Krieg. Do I need a reason to reward that?" The tellingly smug look flickered on Krieg's face. Balak suppressed a smirk. Back in control.

"_Guess not. I'll call if something comes up_."

Balak didn't bother with a goodbye before closing the line. Krieg was right, of course. In spite of the 'successes' like Ral'dan, the Hegemony was still scrambling. The five-planet offensive was costly for GDI, but they were only reeling for lack of preparation. Even as disastrous as the operation had been, they took complete control of two worlds and were contesting two more. Ral'dan might've repelled its invaders, but it was almost done being evacuated on all levels even as Balak worked to drum up support. Its infrastructure was too heavily damaged to fix adequately to make defense viable, and its garrison was of much better use elsewhere. It would be lost within a week, almost certainly.

He couldn't reassign them himself, unfortunately. He was officially a unit commander, and acting too far above one's rank was deeply frowned upon by batarian society. He did, however, have considerable pull with High Commander Hemoth, a career soldier and officer who recognized talent when he saw it.

Balak transcribed his recommendation. Veterans of Ral'dan were a valuable commodity for propaganda, both on and off the battlefield. Whatever Hegemony agents who wanted access to them would undoubtedly do so while they were being moved, so that was a non-issue for him. Where they went was more of his concern. They were veterans who knew how to fight humans and, more importantly, could teach other soldiers a few tricks.

A window appeared in the corner of a screen. Balak waved it open and grunted in displeasure. Casualty reports from the frontlines. Hemoth had forwarded them to him. There was an unspoken request for his opinion, and Balak examined the specific details of the reports.

Both sets of eyes widened in surprise. He knew the propaganda as well as any other citizen (even if he also knew what parts were fabricated), and it had become widely publicized 'knowledge' that the human infantry who fought in hulking suits of powered armor were convicts-turned-soldiers kept in line by systems wired into their armor.

But now, there were reports of multiple companies using human prison-slang among their unit designations, and it didn't seem to be in mockery of the batarian propaganda. Combat footage was sparse, and even when it was there, it tended to be grainy, but Balak did notice a particular…'vigor,' he decided, in their fighting. They even looted barracks and depots after sweeping away the resistance.

Soldiers of the Hegemony were always taught that death in pursuit of victory was the greatest achievement one could hope for, but you were promoted to officers when you realized that valiant sacrifice was all well and good, but better still was a well-timed retreat to allow for later victory. Balak had been involved in several valiant last stands before now, and by definition it was always the same side that made it out alive. He shared this pragmatic mindset with many other officers, in no small part due to his time with pirates in the Verge.

He knew the limitations of BSA-issue gear. And he knew the advantages that GDI gear had, but the Hegemony had neither the money nor the production capability to produce equivalents. As such, he 'encouraged' troops under his command to commandeer enemy tech whenever possible. He didn't tell them to discard their own gear, of course. That would be borderline treason. But most commanders of any level would wholeheartedly approve when told that the rank-and-file were merely using enemy firearms to conserve their own munitions.

With that said…why would human troops bother looting abandoned encampments? Their gear was almost universally superior, and even then they used such overwhelming firepower that they'd be lucky to find enough guns and equipment to outfit a fireteam. A few brave scouts had reported apparent post-battle celebration among the humans, so did that mean-

Balak actually laughed aloud when it hit him. Humans and batarians were both levo-amino acid based races. It stood to reason if they found piles of uneaten food or (better yet) free alien liquor, they would go to town on them rather than waste their own. Though he'd never sampled it himself, Balak assumed that human military rations weren't much better than those the Hegemony issued.

After a quick glance over the availability of toxin kits, Balak sent a second memo to High Commander Hemoth. GDI could revel in its victories for now, but even if it would take more effort to stop the victories itself, Balak could at least be satisfied with ending the revelries.

* * *

**Codex – Batarian Hegemony – Observers**

_The Batarian Hegemony has made use of political officers for a considerable amount of time before the Verge War, but their value as overt agents rose dramatically in the face of war with a galactic superpower. Their primary tasks were maintaining troop morale and ensuring the competence of commanding officers, duties which melded perfectly with the acquisition of new propaganda material. To troopers in the field, they were both commissars and journalists who could damn or canonize even the lowliest of soldiers, inspiring great feats of courage in the face of all odds. _

_Hegemony propaganda, once dominated by either nondescript or outright fabricated soldiers and units, now had real groups and soldiers to draw upon for their material. The Department of Information Control still retained the right to 'clarify' events reported to them as they saw fit, but the ability to find recognizable names within Hegemony propaganda raised the already-formidable battlefield resolve of their soldiers to new levels. Every vehicle crew aspired to follow after the Stromgald-class heavy tank _Hamerfall_, which was reported to have slain two Mammoth tanks and wounded a third before its destruction, and infantry regarded with awe the last stand of the Army of Two, support gunners who held off an entire company of Zone troopers while their comrades withdrew from a losing battle. _

**Codex - Ships and Vehicles - Mantis modular aircraft series**

_The Mantis series was first produced in 2163, several years following the end of the First Contact War. After the Council noted the immense industrial capability that tiberium afforded the Global Defense Initiative, it commissioned several new vehicle chassis that emphasized modularity and production speed with negligible (at most) decreases in quality when matched against their predecessors. _**  
**

_The Mantis line resulted in an inexpensive yet effective aircraft that could be built as a gunship, a high-altitude bomber, a personnel transport, or interceptor without additional manufacturing facilities. All were built by default with VTOL capabilities, and most required only a single pilot to operate. The A-61 is a mainstay of armies across the galaxy, particularly human colonies that rely on planetary defense forces instead of GDI garrisons. Earlier models, however, remain effective and inexpensive, allowing countless mercenary groups, pirates, and warlords to buy them, or even their fabrication rights. The Batarian Hegemony produces numerous variants of the A-58, which retains the same armor and firepower as even the A-61, yet proves dramatically less expensive to produce thanks to the omission of more sophisticated targeting, radar and anti-missile systems.  
_

**Codex – Ships and Vehicles – ACS-240 **

_After the failure of capitol ships to provide much-needed orbital supremacy during the initial invasion of Ral'dan, GDI turned to a craft that had been originally developed during the Third Tiberium War to ensure that their ground forces would never be without such support. The ACS-240 'Nightmare' was modeled after the century-old Kodiak warship, which had been dismissed as over-specialized during its brief tenure with GDI. Now, reduced to a significantly smaller size yet carrying weaponry to match a lance of Juggernaut artillery walkers, the Nightmare could be quickly and easily deployed in lieu of direct orbital support. Its hull structure and propulsion systems easily allowed it to operate in high-atmospheric conditions, out of the viable range of most planet-bound aircraft, while its advanced targeting EVAs allowed its crew to bring its guns to bear against both static and moving targets. This unprecedented level of accuracy still could not replace the close air support ability of the Orca and other such aircraft, but they nonetheless proved invaluable in policing besieged Hegemony cities, ensuring that nothing got in or out without GDI approval._

* * *

**Well, that was comparatively fast, and a much longer chapter than previous ones. I'm not spoiling much when I say that Nale and Geralt aren't going to fall out of the picture quite so quickly and Balak (obviously) isn't either. Hope you enjoy the new-ish additions to the GDI arsenal, too. Next chapter's going to have some more prominent ones. And as it turns out, BSA might not be as terrible at their jobs as you'd think they are. **

**R&R, anon accepted. You know the drill by now.  
**


	5. War Stories

**I'd planned to post around Friday, but frankly, I've put this chapter off long enough. No need to stretch it even two days longer than I absolutely need to. So without anything else to say, here's chapter five:  
**

* * *

**Around 70-ish, maybe late 60s**

**Some space station in the ass-end of nowhere**

**Definitely the Terminus System**

For any mercenary worth his weight, near-death experiences were a dime a dozen. If you couldn't handle it, you either died or lived long enough to find other work. Zaeed Massani had spent the majority of his adult life in the business of war, and he had his fair share of close encounters with death, but none were enough to convince him to hang up his rifle and settle down.

A few had come close, though.

It was not uncommon for more than one group of 'contractors' to be called by different 'concerned parties' to deal with a single problem. If you happened to act first, then you probably wouldn't even know there had been other mercs gunning for the same target. If you weren't the first to move, then you shrugged your shoulders, pocketed your employer's down payment, and called it a day. There were rarely refunds in the world of hired guns.

But sometimes, once in a blue moon, those mercs happen to make their moves on the same day. The result is two doors on the opposite side of a single room exploding, then two groups of heavily armed men converging on a third group stuck between the two. Generally, there's a few seconds of confusion, as everyone comes to terms with the situation.

Then the shooting starts.

* * *

The targets had been fairly small-time gunrunners, mostly humans and a few batarians, maybe a turian or three. Still, when they were struck from both sides of their warehouse by two separate mercenary forces, they fought to the bitter end. Even the weakest of men can be a nightmare when forced into a corner and armed with cutting-edge firepower. Crates intended for sale were thrown open and high-powered weapons sprayed death until their operators succumbed to one of the two storms of gunfire.

This had been when Zaeed's Blue Suns were still soldiers, before they'd been little more than hired killers. Fifteen men, seven of them ex-Marines like Zaeed, and all with the skills to rival professional troopers. Six had descended from the ceiling to set up firing points on the maze of catwalks while the remainder broke in through the back door with Zaeed at their head.

It was overkill for thirty-odd smugglers, sure, but Zaeed was thankful for every soldier he'd brought when the _front_ door had been smashed off its hinges and a new force entered the fray at the same time as the Blue Suns.

Their movement wasn't nearly as disciplined as that of Zaeed's men, nor was their gunfire, but they had at least twenty bodies pouring into the warehouse. Individual accuracy didn't count for much when everyone was armed with an automatic weapon and was firing in a single direction.

Zaeed couldn't make out any emblems on their armor, and the color scheme didn't have any clear pattern to it. They were either a disorganized rabble, or professional enough not to wear their colors on their sleeves. Zaeed's troops had swapped their telltale blue armor for factory-gray suits, and anyone with Blue Sun tattoos had it lasered off before the op began. It was a Blue Suns tradition for covert jobs: tattoos come off before a firefight, and go back on in the post-op celebration.

Frankly, their allegiance didn't matter to Zaeed. Their fire had managed to down one of his men, and his own had taken out two of theirs. Neither side was going to cease fire even when the last of their paid targets hit the floor with more exit wounds than eyeballs. It was personal now.

"Ordinance right," Zaeed grunted as his assault rifle rattled off a burst. The order was heeded swiftly. On the catwalks above, one of his marksmen shifted his aim right, punching a merc off his feet as he was bringing a grenade launcher to bear.

"_Got 'im,_" the trooper confirmed. Zaeed didn't bother replying. His attention was still on the mercs who seemed to be getting reinforced by still _more_ gunmen from outside the warehouse. It was a shooting gallery for the Blue Suns, but if too many more men arrived, the battle could shift against them frighteningly quickly.

"_Holy shit…uh, heavies! Two heavies coming up!_" Zaeed would've berated the speaker for his nonspecific warning, but realized that it wasn't much worse than anything he would've come up with, given the nature of the new foes.

There are a considerable number of races in the galaxy, and not all of them are very well represented outside of their homeworlds and the surrounding system. This is especially true in a mercenary's like of work: Zaeed's career was dotted with notable discoveries of the capabilities of other alien species. His near-death at the strangling tentacles of a hanar had been particularly surprising, though he'd escaped that encounter with little more than mild bruising.

Only once had he fought an elcor, and it had been completely unarmed. Their homeworld of Dekuuna taught them that slow and steady not only won the race, but also prevented an assuredly fatal fall due to the immensely strong gravity. Their language was unlike that of virtually all other races, namely because it didn't involve speaking. Elcor communicated primarily via scent, which omni-tools translated into a monotonous drone that always established its intended tone at the start of the sentence. It was often quite funny to hear, and all of their motions were very slow and deliberate. It was easy not to take an elcor seriously, and Zaeed had almost died because of it.

But these elcor were a farcry from the unarmed specimen most people, Zaeed included, were used to. They were decked from head to toe in so much armor that they looked more like demonic combat mechs than living creatures. And atop the vehicle-grade plating were two pairs of weapons, one wide-bore cannons and the other multi-barreled rotaries.

Zaeed had known they existed, but somehow the elcor living tank had never registered as a 'real' creature until this instant. He had written off the sound of their footsteps as the noise of any number of machines that must've surrounded the warehouse, but it was undeniable now. Their every footfall, just as deliberate as ever, boomed with the immense weight of the creature and its weapons of war.

"Target the elcor," Zaeed half-mumbled, then snapped out of his surprise and shouted, "Target the elcor! Get anti-tank on them _now!_"

No sooner had the order gone out that the living tanks' rotary cannons opened fire. Four guns screamed as their barrels spun and fired, shredding three of the smugglers and one of Zaeed's men. The beasts didn't even slow their steady movement into the warehouse as the high-caliber cannons spewed fire. Anywhere else, they would've qualified as AA guns.

Small arms glanced off their armor plating. Zaeed cursed. There was no way something that big couldn't mount kinetic barriers, so likely saving them for the fire that actually merited their use. Most mechs and vehicles would've required a specialized VI to fulfill that function that would've doubled the unit's costs, but elcor relied so heavily on integrated VIs that they probably came standard.

Two of the Suns were unfolding grenade launchers when the elcor turned its attention to them. Their cover lasted just long enough for it to reach them before the rotary canons broke through, shredding one man before he could fire a single shot.

The other was quick enough to raise his weapon with the hulking alien bearing down on him. The grenade launcher fired and detonated on impact, finally triggering the kinetic barriers.

The internal cylinder was still cycling a new round into place when the elcor reached out an armored limb as thick as a tree trunk and wrapped its fingers around the trooper's head and shoulders. The gesture was frighteningly casual. The elcor method of combat showed just as much of their race's signature slow-yet-deliberate movement that their normal activity had.

And with an equally casual motion, blood spurted from the clenched fist and the living tank cast the dead man aside.

Zaeed heard a grunt as the man next to him dropped to the ground. Fire grazed their position, miraculously missing Zaeed even as he glanced down at the pinned ex-soldier. His attention fell squarely on the folded white weapon across his back.

"I'll take that," Zaeed grunted, pulling it free and hitting the side to prime it. A missile launcher was exactly what they needed, and Zaeed wasn't planning to trust another man with it when he could use it himself. For now, though, he was just thankful that the remaining smugglers were dying slowly enough to distract most of the enemy soldiers and the other elcor.

Zaeed cursed. He'd counted his blessings, and they were pissed for it. The elcor rounded on him, and the 'Cobra' missile launcher felt like a smoking gun in his hands. He dived aside as a barrage of autocannon fire mulched the previous owner of the weapon, finishing his roll with a quick aim and squeeze of the trigger.

The Cobra was a limited-use weapon, designed with paramilitary troops in mind where dedicated anti-tank troopers were rarely an option. It was light enough to add negligible weight to a soldier's combat load, and its payload was heavy enough to break open even a light tank with just one shot.

The elcor vanished in a sudden sunburst, and Zaeed landed behind blessed cover as the Cobra cycled a new missile into its firing chamber. The words of his men confirmed that the first elcor was indeed down, but that would still leave one more, and it would be wary of the anti-tank weaponry among its foes.

* * *

"_Alert: allied biometrics have flatlined._"

Rage came slowly for elcor, but Ultren let it surge through him as his battle-brother vanished in the fire of an anti-tank launcher. Zulwai had been a good soldier and a better friend. His killers would pay. A living-tank's rage was a terrible thing to behold: a unit with the armor of a medium tank and the ferocity of the most vicious shock troops. Left unchecked, an elcor's rage needed _hours_ to subside. Firefights like this would last mere minutes.

Ultren had to provided direction for the numerous VI systems aboard his armor, but they had no need for physical speech, and their VIs were designed as such. The usual elcor method of communication was enough.

_Redirect fire. Hostile three to priority one._

"_Order: acknowledged._"

Simply laying eyes on the anti-tank weapon was enough to highlight it for the VI systems, leaving Ultren's duty to bringing it within range. His human allies would draw off any other fire, little of which had any chance of more than scuffing his armor's paint.

Rage grew from a mere emotion to an unstoppable force. Ulthren chose not to stop it. His battle-brother was dead. The operation was becoming more and more complicated by the second, and his VI probability calculator was displaying a percentage chance of successful survival that was rapidly ticking down. Ulthren ignored it. Zulwai deserved nothing less.

His battle-brother's death continued to sink in. Ultren knew of one way to avenge it.

* * *

"_**Death. Death.**_" A booming monotone voice pierced the chaotic din, and Zaeed felt compelled to scrambled from the cargo container that currently offered him cover. It was a wise decision, as the second elcor's rotary autocannons punched through the container as if it were tissue paper.

"_**Death. Death.**_" The damned chanting continued. Zaeed recognized it as the monotone typical of elcor, but it made little sense. Their translators normally added a tone before any statement, giving them some sort of context to-

Oh, _hell_.

"_Hah! You hear that?_" one of Zaeed's men laughed from the catwalk, firing a shot that punched another rival mercenary off his feet, "_Stupid xeno can't even threaten us right._"He

Zaeed would've sent back a scathing retort, but he knew better. Far too much so. He knew well enough to be afraid for one of the few times in decades.

"_**Death.**_"

The missile streaked towards the elcor, but this one was more than triple the distance from the shooter than its previous target. Zaeed blinked, and in doing so, he saved his own life. The ensuring flash as a lance of red light detonated the missile halfway between them would've been more than enough to blind him, if only for a crucial few seconds. He swore viciously, wishing he still had one of the MOD-3 launchers that the GDI Marine Corp had instead of this disposable POS.

The scream of the rotary autocannon urged every fiber of his being to stay down, but his Cobra was still cycling in a new round. That meant a new chance to earn a kill worth remembering. but still, there was fear.

His fears were confirmed as a stench overtook him. It reeked of sulfur, like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

The Blue Suns troopers were no doubt still scoffing the elcor's "boasting" abilities, but Zaeed was horribly aware of how wrong they were. Elcor didn't 'speak.' Strictly speaking, they never did. Their entire speech pattern was linked to their omni-tool's ability to take the output of their scent glands and translate it into speech.

Zaeed's launcher finished its reloading cycle, but the elcor's AMS system was no doubt ready for a second shot.

"_**DEATH**_."

With a sweep of its arm, the elcor hurled aside a shipping container the size of a semi-truck as if it were nothing but a cardboard replica. Its guns never stopped firing. Its footfalls left craters in the solid metal deck. One of the Blue Suns got in its way. Despite the prolonged burst of rifle fire, the elcor didn't even bother paying him any real attention. Instead, its fist swept out again, and the mercenary was hurled across the deck with a disgusting _crunch_, bones shattered despite his armor. He died without so much as a groan.

In human terms, this elcor would've been Achilles, one who had been filled with the power of an god and set loose upon men who were all-too mortal. It was hatred distilled to its purest essence. It wanted the world to burn for the loss it felt, and damn he rest. If Achilles had been an elcor, an entire world would've been torn asunder by nothing more than its hatred.

Elcor didn't 'speak.' But the omni-tool picked up the stench of killing intent, and it translated as best it could. The living tank wanted Zaeed dead with such single-mindedness that it did not need to 'speak.' It already reeked of death.

* * *

**June 13, 2181**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul**

**Hegemony Territory**

"…holy shit," someone muttered. The one word gave voice to the dozen or so troopers listening to Zaeed Massani. A few had already relayed their own war stories, but the Warden's was putting theirs to shame.

"Then what?" someone else finally asked.

"Then I died," Zaeed snorted, taking a slug from his flask, "I was outmanned and outgunned. It'd make sense for things to end then and there."

"But…"

"But what?"

"But...but you ain't dead," the trooper finished somewhat lamely. It seemed like an obvious remark, given the clear fact that Zaeed was, indeed, alive, but given the hopelessness of the situation placed in front of story-Zaeed, the survival of actual-Zaeed seemed almost unrealistic.

"Yeah, that's right," Zaeed leaned forward, "I ain't dead. And I'm not telling you why I ain't, because there wouldn't be a point." He ran a finger along the deep, crescent scar beside his eye.

"This's from a time when I should've been dead, too. I'm covered with marks just like it, and I've got a few from that goddamn elcor. I couldn't find the time to tell you about 'em all even if I wanted to, so I'm not about to start now."

"Quit your whining," he cut off any protests before they could leave his listener's mouths, "I got through, didn't I? If you want, you can think of some action-hero bullshit where I killed that living tank without breaking a sweat. Or you can appreciate the closest thing to a goddamn moral I'm ever gonna tell you lot." The moment hung in time as Zaeed took another long drink.

"You won't beat the odds without a lot of marks to show for it, and plenty of people won't even be that lucky. I went in that day with fifteen men, and I left with seven. I don't care how goddamn impressive a scar's story might be: when you get it because you lost half the men you went into combat with, it ain't special to you for any other reason than because you made it out of there alive, and some poor sod was too busy being dead to soak up another scratch on your behalf."

He tapped a finger against the same scar again. The half-moon around his milky-white eye stood out among the others that, so numerous, seemed almost like wrinkles on his face.

"But sometimes you get a scar worth remembering. Anyone can get a mark on his skin. A real scar's something you got when you were first in line for the headsman's axe, he took his best swing, and you're still here to tell about it."

"Any of you lot got a story like that?"

Every man raised a hand, and Zaeed couldn't help but smile. He knew there had been a reason he'd liked Easy Company.

* * *

There were four Commandos attached to the 2nd Penal Company. If each one had committed an offense dire enough to warrant their presence in a penal unit, even Master Sergeant Sean McCourt didn't know about it. All he knew was what they were capable of, and if keeping that level of performance meant overlooking a few black marks on their records, it was fine by him. Easy Company was a place for second chances, after all, and they certainly got along well enough with the rest of the troopers.

In that regard, they were as close to perfectly statistical as they could be with only four soldiers. Two of them, Atkins and Kadigan, drank and boasted with the best of Easy, with nothing now to reflect their Commando status other than the stories they told and the skill with which they cheated at games of chance.

Then there was Liddell, a scholarship girl. With no legal guardians other than the Initiative itself, she'd never opted out of military service and risen rapidly among the more elite ranks of the Marine Corp, culminating in her admission into the Commando program. Commanding officers and fellow troopers alike described her almost universally as 'A damn good soldier' and, if prompted for further details, 'Female.' All of her files indicated that she was, at worst, quite introverted. No Corp shrink had seen any reason to question her eligibility for service (and given her obvious talent, none had any real desire to, either), though this was in large part because Liddell knew what they didn't want to hear. Dead men weren't supposed to speak, so Liddell never told anyone that she could hear them sometimes when the adrenaline was pounding.

Finally, there was Hong. He still took part in the festivities, but was quiet, albeit in subtle way. He still laughed at the jokes and stories offered up by others, but gave none of his own. When asked for contributions, he politely declined and passed the duty onto another man, or shifted attention to someone else with a well-timed remark. To observe Hong was to observe a man who existed solely to watch, listen, and react. A few of the rank-and-file found him the most unnerving of the four. He was an excellent listener who offered nothing in return. While soldiers like Liddell were almost stereotypical in their dedication to war and little else, Hong seemed just substantive enough that it took a few moment's consideration to realize that he was just as much a mystery as Liddell.

The Commando program used to have a 97% washout rate alongside a 22% fatality rate. The washout rate remained largely unchanged, but with medical advances and without the looming threat of Nod and tiberium expansion, the fatality rate dropped. The process was no less grueling, however. Even among those select few who made it through to the end, there would always be scars beyond those of the flesh. Hong was a survivor, but he had lost a piece of himself in doing so. For him, nothing could be regarded as truly 'safe.' Everyday conversation was treated as a walk through a minefield. He had only returned home to Earth once since gaining Commando status. There were too many blindspots in civilian life, and friends and family could never be counted on in the same way fellow soldiers could. He drank, certainly, but there was always a detox syringe in his pocket.

Rogue Commandos were a rare thing for many reasons. But when they did appear, the Initiative pull out all the stops to ensure that they didn't remain threats. Most contingency plans involved orbital barrages, air and artillery strikes, or some combination of the three. In the case of Commandos serving in penal units, Easy Company was unique: it had Zaeed Massani.

InOps had decided that that was more than enough.

* * *

**June 15, 2181**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul**

**Batarian territory**

"Christmas has come early, boys and girls!" Master Sergeant McCourt's voice boomed even without the built-in amplification system of his Zone armor. He stood in front of a cargo ship, its engines still glowing from descent. The loading ramp was down, and the crew was unloading dozens of crates of varying sizes onto the tarmac.

"We have won the opportunity to field-test some new tech the Initiative is looking to put into service. If I can get this projector working, I'll show you," A holographic projector flickered to life, creating a still image of a double-sized Zone trooper in front of the assembled company.

The holographic trooper a large weapon in its hands, supported by a powered harness that gripped the armor's torso. It was a big gun, even by Zone trooper standards, comparable to the bulky Grinder support cannon. The four barrels, however, were longer than the rotary cannon's own, and it lacked the same thick cable that connected the Grinder to its back-mounted heat sink.

"This," McCourt gestured to the cannon-wielding armor, "Is the Achilles Multipurpose Anti-armor Weapon System. It's a bit of a mouthful, so most people call it the MAWS. And most people who fire it call it the Mawesome." This got a few chuckles from the company as the image shifted as McCourt made a few commands on his omni-tool.

"Dealer's choice of how it fires: use all four barrels for busting tanks, two for LAVs, or rotate with just one at a time if you're only looking at infantry. And that harness ain't just for show. A Grinder feels like a popgun next to this thing."

The image changed again. This time, it showed a fairly nondescript rectangular box with a keypad and screen build into it.

"R&D is thinking about the MAWS as a possible replacement for the Grinder, but you're going to be seeing this in every GDI armory within the year. The Small-Arms and Equipment Maintenance and Repair Station, or SAEMRS," he managed to somehow pronounce, "Even the powers-that-be could tell that it showed up late when God was handing out good acronyms, so they just call it the Grindstone."

The projection shifted slightly. The top of the 'box' split down the middle, opening to reveal an internal cradle.

"It's as easy as putting your weapon of choice inside, punching in a command, and then letting the Grindstone do its work. You can order it to do anything from basic repairs to more advanced weapon mods, and it upgrades the software by default. I'm told that the next incarnation will be able to receive almost any piece of gear, so if you've got the patience for it, you can feed your armor through it limb-by-limb and get it back factory-new. All it needs to keep working is a supply of omni-gel and a power source."

"That said, anyone who wants to give the MAWS a go, break open a crate and go to town. We've got a few batarian tanks left reasonably intact, and plenty of buildings, too. If you're already on support-weapon duty and you like what you find, then you can take one for yourself. You'll need to wait for an Albatross to touch down before we get access to the Grindstones, but I'm told that an entire wall of the armory will be occupied by 'em. The more use we get out of 'em, the faster we can get 'em approved for general use."

"Dismissed."

* * *

Within minutes, Joakim Ericson had fallen in love with his factory-new MAWS. He certainly wouldn't forfeit his Grinder, but the MAWS was shaping up to be a noticeably more versatile weapon in almost every area except raw rate of fire.

An intact medium tank was downrange of him, no crew to save it from its fate. Ericson didn't bother testing the alternate fire modes again. He'd already confirmed the forewarned recoil that firing it as a rotary cannon had, and firing two-by-two was more than enough to pierce the walls of a batarian prefab barracks.

This time, all four barrels fired as one with a_ crack_ that bypassed the noise filters in his helmet and shook the fillings in his teeth. The barrels were closely grouped, and firing them all at once effectively gave their four projectiles armor-piercing capability far beyond what they would've had if fired individually in succession.

It looked as if a fist had been punched through the side of the tank. They hadn't needed to break any barriers beforehand, of course, nor did the rounds make an impression on the opposite side, but that was expecting too much. It was plenty comforting to know that a single unified shot from the MAWS could messily slaughter the crew of anything short of a heavy or superheavy tank. A dead crew was just as good as a dead tank, as far as Ericson was concerned, and that was not something his Grinder could guarantee.

* * *

Easy Company was not the only GDI unit on Ral'dan to be receiving new war machines fresh out of R&D. Captain Ian Mitchell of the 12th Armored stood in the interior of an 'Archon' control crawler, watching as eight of his men moved in their command couches as if piloting mechs.

The soldiers were sitting in two rows of four, both linking either side of the crawler's innards. Mitchell moved in the small path between the rows that led to the driver and gunner's seats at the head of the vehicle, but those chairs were empty. Few 'crawler' type vehicles relied heavily on skilled drivers, much less gunners. They tended to be delegated support roles, which the Archon was surpassing with great speed.

Though it mounted a pair of rotary cannons on its roof, the Archon was never intended to be in direct combat. Its strength lay in the bulky, now-vacant slots lining either side of the vehicle. Some distance away, two-legged walkers that stood barely under a standard-pattern Wolverine's height moved without direct operators, responding to the remote movements of the men inside the crawler.

These eight REV10 'Hounds' were the crawler's main asset. Their back-canted legs constituted more of their body than the legs of their manned counterparts, but without the need for a cockpit, it was space that could be spared. The shape was another sign of a telling difference: the Hound was not built to accommodate a pilot.

Like the Wolverine, though, its weaponry was built to be hot-swapped at a moment's notice to accommodate any battlefield. Standard loadout was a pair of light vehicle-grade ion cannons on one arm and a rotary autocannon on the other. Mitchell had never served alongside a Steel Talon unit, but he'd seen walkers in action, and they were not to be underestimated. Wolverines were faster than quite a few LAVs, and they often sported even more firepower. A trio of Juggernauts, too, could lay down as much fire as a battery of heavy artillery, and were significantly more mobile.

The Hounds moved more stiffly than most mechs he'd seen, and while their firepower was potent, Mitchell had to remind himself of the _real_ asset they represented. Their operators were here, in the Archon, while the Hounds themselves were off well in the distance. They were a cure for the weakness of limited manpower that threatened any invading army in a foreign land, and their loss only represented a loss of material resources. Unlike Wolverines and the like, their pilots were only at risk from attack on the command crawler.

Fortunately for them, Mitchell had a company of power-armored soldiers to put between them and the enemy, not to mention his own tanks and air support. And his big guns would be firing with that much more accuracy if those damned Kestrels would arrive soon.

* * *

**June 16, 2181**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul  
**

**Batarian territory  
**

Easy Company may have moved with the grace and finesse of a sledgehammer, but that was expected from a Heavy Infantry unit. The trick then was either making sure that their duties were ones befitting a sledgehammer or ensuring there was always a metaphorical scalpel nearby to do what the hammer could not.

Captain Ian Mitchell's 12th Armored was not that scalpel. They might've been more graceful than a lot of GDI armored companies, but the Predator MBT was still classified as a heavy tank by most organized militaries, and their new Hounds were hardly stealth tools, either. They had steamrolled the remnants of a Hegemony armored unit (in no small part aided by the groundwork set by Easy Company's Commandos), and their target was finally in sight: a looming batarian city, codenamed 'Hive.' Every building oozed 'mass production,' from the blocky design to the general uniformity of color. Batarians built cities the same way they build weapons: in bulk.

Still, Ral'dan was a lesson to every officer in the Initiative, and Mitchell knew better than the flaunt procedure. Sitrep first, drop the hammer second. Other units were encountering resistance on different approaches to the city, and it was only the fact that Mitchell was slightly behind them that the 12th was similarly embroiled in combat.

"_Sandman__, _Mitchell here. What's the situation?"

"_Not good, Captain. Hold for a full report._"

Mitchell took the opportunity to turn his view skyward. The external cameras amplified the high-altitude craft, and Mitchell realized for the first time how heavy the combat was in the skies above them. The turrets mounted to the underside of the ACS-240 Nightmare shifted and fired continuously. The Hegemony Mantises buzzing about might've not been within range for them to draw a bead on the gunship, but the Nightmare was designed for long-ranged engagements.

"_Sorry for the delay, Captain. There's heavy resistance all around the city, and you're about half a klick away from a whole lot of defensive emplacements._"

"Can you soften them up before we get there?"

"_I'd like to, but I already tried that on the northern approach. They're hardened as all hell, and unless they're firing, it's hard to actually see them, even with thermals. And I think that's why I'm ass-deep in Mantis as it is. The four-eyes are more than willing to occupy us with shooting down gunships if it means their bunkers can keep firing on their targets. _Iron Sky_ and _Foehammer_ are just as bogged down as we are._"

"Command told us to take the city, _Sandman_."

"_And the new word from command is to dig in. Baker and Charlie are starting to stall on the other side of town, and Easy is already dangerously overextended. You've got a lot of defenses between you and them, so moving to support is out of the question._"

"Understood," Mitchell masked his disappointment, "We'll move to cover Easy's retreat."

"_Confirmed, Captain. You might get your fight yet. They're in it deep._"

* * *

Cotton was angry. It wasn't because they were losing, per se, but because they weren't actively winning. Their last clash with batarians had been a satisfying slaughter, but this was like wading through a swamp: slow, uncomfortable, and dangerous. The swamp itself might've been the main obstacle, but it was likely filled with plenty of things that could make you dead in no time flat if you gave them half a chance.

At least there was plenty of cover. Most infantry would take comfort in this small blessing, but Cotton and the rest of Easy Company were _Heavy_ Infantry. Cover was something that leathernecks and Army grunts needed, not them. That was the natural order of things: Zone troopers waded through fire to crush the source, then moved on, rinse and repeat. The 'cover' they had was quite good, but that was because it was intended to be. It was a batarian foxhole that had been abandoned a few short minutes ago. There were dozens like it to either side of Fourth squad, and still more behind and (more importantly) ahead of them. No matter their devotion to their cause, the batarian troops had planned for retreats, and they had plenty of reinforced fallback points to make Easy Company's job harder.

Sergeant Rock (Cotton was never entirely sure if that was his real name or just a nickname) split his time between firing off bursts from his Werewolf and communicating with other squad leaders. The limited results and discouraging reports he received from them, respectively, did nothing to improve his mood.

"Then give us some fucking air support!" he barked, letting loose a long burst at a distant bunker. He cursed as all this did was attract a few high-caliber shots of retaliation that thankfully did as much damage to Fourth as his had done to the bunker.

"_All three Nightmares are already engaged, _sergeant_,_" a strained voice shot back, emphasizing his rank, "_And the Orcas are having enough trouble keeping enemy air units occupied. If we pull any of them, we put the Nightmares at risk._"

"Mortars! Down!" someone shouted. It didn't much matter who it was, as the response was immediate. Cotton ducked down alongside everyone else, suddenly thankful for the cover provided by the foxhole as the contrails streaking through the air suddenly turned into high-explosives all around them. As tough as it was, Zone armor couldn't take a direct shot from a mortar, and batarian mortars and artillery alike emphasized quantity. The area was saturated in fire and shrapnel, and pieces of metal sparked off Cotton's barriers.

"Red! Break open that bunker!" Rock shouted.

Ericson waited only a moment for a break in the storm of gunfire from the bunker before rising from his position. His left foot slid back as he pressed the firing stud on his MAWS, and the air shattered as all four barrels fired their shots downrange.

It was a long way off, and the railgun couldn't outright penetrate the reinforced structure. Bunkers weren't like tanks: they didn't need to move, so they could be reinforced in ways that tankers could only dream of. But it forced a long pause in any retaliatory fire, and that was what mattered.

Rock quickly gestured to Hastings. The soldier nodded (as well as he could, given his armor), and took off like a shot. Zone armor was bulky, certainly, but it gave the wearer speed as well as strength. Even without the aid of his jump pack, Hastings slid into a pit left by an artillery shell barely ten meters from the bunker.

"_Almost there_," his voice crackled through the team frequency, "_One more distraction and I'll be around_."

"You heard him," Rock said, cycling to his Werewolf's LMG module, "With me." He rose and fired, along with the rest of Fourth squad. The combined firepower pummeled the bunker, and even if it didn't have a prayer of piercing it anytime today, it certainly distracted the batarian gun crew. With a deep breath, Hastings sprinted from his cover, trusting that the suppressive fire of eight Werewolves and the repeated thunderclaps of Ericson's MAWS would keep the soldiers in the bunker occupied. If it didn't, he'd be cut in half before he could get around the bunker, Zone armor or not.

But it worked. Hastings shifted the underslung 'grenade' module of his Werewolf to his newest addition. Normally, it would be equipped with either fragmentation or sonic grenades, but he'd consistently found that the latter never had much of a purpose in his arsenal. A few minutes in a Grindstone had turned the sonic grenade module, and the launcher itself, into something that he could really get some use out of.

The door behind the bunker was designed to withstand small arms fire and most force that an infantryman could apply with his body. It couldn't, however, withstand the boot of a soldier clad in military-grade powered armor. Dangling from one hinge, it slammed inward, revealing a team of four batarians inside the small structure. They immediately went for their sidearms. Hastings already had his weapon up and aimed. They never stood a chance.

He pulled the secondary trigger, and his weapon let loose a banshee scream. The modified sonic grenade module fired a cone of killing sound, like a flamethrower of barely-visible blue waves. It hurled the Hegemony soldiers against the walls, rupturing eyes and wreaking untold carnage on their organs. The support gun sparked and trembled under the blue barrage, important parts shaken apart by the weaponized sonic waves.

The soldiers were dead within a second or two. Hastings didn't think the new module was quite as impressive as a flamethrower module, but it was quicker, and it let out such an appealing sound when he triggered it...even more elegant than the crackling of flames, if not as viscerally satisfying.

Hastings could learn to like that banshee wail, even with his stash of flame packs vying for his attention.

"Bunker's clear," Hastings announced.

"_Good work, but new orders are in: we're to fall back, ASAP. The 12th are moving to cover our withdrawal,_" Rock responded, clearly resigned to the orders.

"Will do, sarge," Hastings grunted, pausing only to check his secondary module. There'd been no damage to the modified barrel, nor to the module itself. It had performed without a hitch, and even if they were forced to retreat, he'd at least gotten to test it out under combat conditions. Besides, sonic weapons didn't leave quite as telltale signs as flames.

In the foxhole, Palmer punched Cotton's shoulder. The blow would've dislocated his shoulder if not for his armor. Instead, it merely got his attention. Palmer angled her head in the direction they'd come from, as Rock and the rest were beginning to pull out. Cotton grunted and followed them. There'd be a next time.

* * *

**June 20, 2181**

**Artificial orbital construction  
**

**Batarian territory  
**

The _Travalan_ orbital shipyard was in a constant state of activity ever since the human invasion of the Hegemony proper. At first, ships poured in from the core planets for basic resupplying before making their way to the frontlines. Now, far more came from the opposite direction. Everything from frigates the cruisers limped back to port for repairs, and many were forced to leave with the hastiest of jobs done to keep them spaceworthy.

It was not a slight against batarian engineers, though. Because of the Hegemony's insular nature, the ingenuity and skill of batarian engineers was unknown to most of the galaxy. Many a starship captain has sworn by the motto that BSA might create, but engineers finish. They made sure that everything worked as advertised, an issue with Batarian State Arms that became only more common the larger or complex their creation.

But the newest arrival left all but the most veteran workers awestruck. At over two kilometers from bow to stern, it dwarfed even the largest ship currently in orbit, and the hull bristled with weapons. Its creator's handiwork showed: despite its immense size, it managed to look as if it had been stamped out from the largest assembly line in the universe.

It had been in hundreds of propaganda vidcasts, and there wasn't a single crewman at the _Travalan_ who didn't know what it was. The _Pillar of Valor_, the youngest of the Hegemony's prized dreadnaughts.

And it had granted the _Travalan_ the honor of preparing it for combat.

Foreman Bando Vol'jer moved as quickly as he could without simply running. He rarely greeted the incoming ship captains in person, but none of them had been the captain of a dreadnought. After entering the lift a short ways from the office from which he oversaw all incoming and outgoing vessels, a quick ride deposited him on C-deck, where the entire level of docking tubes had been cleared for the _Pillar of Valor_.

Bando arrived just in time. A door slid open, and a man bearing the marks and air of a captain stepped into the bustling spaceport. Several officers, no doubt his command staff, followed behind him. Bando instinctively lowered his head as he approached.

"You are the overseer of this port?" the captain flicked a finger upward, and Bando obligingly looked up to make eye contact.

"Yes, captain."

"Do you usually greet captains personally?" The demand caught Bando off guard.

"No, captain," he answered after a moment's hesitation.

"Then why are you doing it for me?" Another curveball, this one more baffling than the first. Of course Bando was greeting him personally! He was the captain of the _Pillar of Valor_, a position of great prestige in and of itself, but one that also spoke of great social standing. Bando may have been the head of a prominent shipyard, but that was little compared to someone granted the honor of controlling one of the single greatest weapons in the Hegemony. The captain could be a government department chief, or a planetary governor, or-

"Relax, I'm screwing with you," the captain's air of cold authority evaporated, leaving Bando with a feeling of confusion that made him _more_ ill at ease, "I know why you're here, and as the captain of the _Valor_, I recognize and accept your gesture."

"Forgive my impudence, captain, but I'm unused to such-"

"Informality?" the captain finished, "I'm not. My concern is with getting my ship ready for combat, not waiting on ceremony." He nodded to his entourage, and they saluted before going their separate ways. Bando was left alone (or as alone as he could be in the receiving area of an active spaceport) with the captain.

"Let's continue this conversation in your office, shall we?" the captain offered, "I assume that it's quiet there?"

Quiet. Such an innocent sounding word, but so loaded when coming from the mouth of a starship captain to the head of a port. It shocked Bando to hear it from a man of such implied status within the Hegemony government and high society. 'Quiet' meant free of any recording or listening devices that might catch wind of less-than-legal activities, be they smuggling, unlicensed piracy…that sort of thing.

"Of-of course, captain. This way, please."

They walked in silence, but in Bando's head, alarm bells were going off. The captain of a _dreadnought_ wanted to speak to him outside the ear of the Hegemony. It carried with it the implication of dealings that could set him up for life, or bring the wrath of the Special Interventions Unit squarely on his head. Or worse.

Bando wasn't sure what could be worse, but it frightened him to think that there might be something worse than receiving a surprise visit from a member of the SIU.

The lift ride was again mercifully short. As soon as the doors of the office closed behind them, the captain dropped into the seat in front of Bando's desk and unclasped the gorget of his armor.

"Damnation. We've got a job ahead of us," he let out a long breath, glancing over to Bando as he shakily sat in his own chair. The use of 'we' was especially unsettling. Bando was nervous about being included in the same pronoun as someone of such a rank as the strange captain, not to mention by the implications it carried. He was in so far over his head that the surface was a distant memory.

"You look like hell. Take a drink if you need to," the captain furrowed his brows, finally sensing Bando's discomfort. A moment of realization dawned on him, "I see. You were expecting some high-society man to be at the head of a ship like the _Valor_, eh? All caste protocols and whatnot?" Bando managed a tentative nod.

"Well, you almost had one. My name's Delgan. I was third in line for this position, and I'd rather not go into what happened to the two in front of me. It wasn't my doing, but it wasn't pleasant, either. What matters is that I'm here, you're here, and we need to get the _Valor_ in fighting order _now_."

"Of course, captain," Bando finally found his tongue, "It's…it's just a bit of a shock."

"A damn good shock, if you ask me," Delgan shrugged, "I liaised with the crew for the most part before I got this position, so I get to actually hear what needs to be done to my ship instead of just looking the other way while it gets done."

"But sure the _Pillar of Valor _is-"

"-just as much in need of a fixer as every other factory-new ship you get through here," Delgan replied grimly, "If not more so. I've heard some reports from my crew, and it isn't pretty." He opened his omni-tool, bringing up a transparent model of the _Valor_.

"I'm sending you the latest schematics now. The blueprints you have won't be even half-accurate anymore after what my crew's already done to her, and it's all been for the better. But we aren't done. Not by a longshot."

"Captain, this is a bit…much," Bando carefully picked his words, "Everyone onboard this station knows the capabilities of the _Pillar of Valor_. Are you saying that it's exaggerated?"

"Not at all," the captain gave a mirthless smile, "But I _am_ saying that if we want those capabilities to keep being true after the first volley fired, it needs help. Let me tell you a story..."

* * *

"_Give it to me simply," Delgan said. The gunner shook his head and gestured to the massive weapon battery. _

"_It ain't built right. Or I guess you could say it's built the wrong kinda right."_

"_I said 'simply.'"_

"_Sorry, captain, but that's the problem: it's built just the same as a gun on a destroyer or a cruiser, just bigger. A great replica job, sure, but you can't just take something like this, make it bigger, and then expect it to perform the same job."_

"_Take a look at the recoil dampeners. They'd work just fine on a cruiser, but scaled up here, they just don't cut it. If we're lucky, we'll get maybe twenty shots from any of them before they starts shaking themselves apart."_

"_How about the rest of the armaments?" _

"_That's some good news. The broadside accelerators like this one here all seem to be in working order. We'll conduct some test-firing just to be sure. Missiles aren't built any different, we just more of 'em. Only real issue's with the coil guns."_

"_Good. And our defenses?" Delgan turned his gaze to the chief engineer standing beside the gunner. He shifted nervously. _

"_The barriers themselves are fine, captain. No apparent flaws in their design and just as strong as you'd expect them to be aboard a ship like this."_

"_Then tell me why you sound so nervous."_

"_It's the emergency capacitor, sir. From the information I have on it, it's supposed to raise even fully depleted barriers back to maximum capacity within seconds of its activation."_

"_That sounds pretty useful," the captain crossed his arms, "So I imagine there's a 'but' coming up."_

"_But their power draw is…I can only describe it as crippling, sir," the engineer finally decided on his wording, "It would render well over half our broadsides unpowered and knock out our anti-missile systems. And even under ideal conditions, firing our coil guns would be out of the question."_

"_Can we count on fighter support at all? Or were those docking bays just for show?"_

_The engineer gave a small laugh, only marginally more comfortable with that topic. _

"_We're hardly a carrier, but we've got two reinforced squadrons of single-pilot ships, one of fighters and one of interceptors."_

"_Top of the line, too," the gunner added, "It ain't my field of expertise, but the voidhounds looked ecstatic when they saw their new ships." _

"_Good. One less thing to worry about," the captain nodded, "I don't need to remind either of you how much is riding on us, and on this ship. So get your teams working overtime. We've got one week before we hit a major shipyard, and I want things in the best order they can be before anyone else gets their hands on them."_

* * *

"Take a moment if you need it," Delgan let his words sink in. Bando's jaw was almost hanging slack from the report, and he struggled to maintain his composure.

"Sorry, captain, but…wow," formality dribbled away like armor slagged by laser fire, "This would be one of our biggest jobs ever, and if I understand correctly…"

"…the general public can't find out about it, yes," Delgan finished, "This is the sort of thing that could make or break your career, and it all comes down to whether the powers-that-be approve of your work _and_ your ability to keep it on the down-low."

"The greatest story never told, then."

"Not quite," Delgan smiled, "Funny thing about unsung heroes: as long as the right people know about them, they tend to find that public adoration is severely overrated."

* * *

**/-/ERROR/galactic position systems offline/debug program engaging**

**/-/debug status:aborted**

**/-/ALERT/foreign malware detected/antiviral subroutines:aborted**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/ AWAKEN  
**

Squad Commander Nale Sha'goth awoke in darkness. It struck him as a miracle to be awake at all, though he couldn't remember why. It was hard enough to figure out where he was without the additional task of trying to figure out how he got there.

He blinked, but the darkness under his eyelids was either no different than the pitch-black that surrounded him, or he was blind. Regardless, memories swam across his mind's eye, jumbled and incoherent. He could remember indistinct feelings of pain and fear, but he couldn't give concrete sources to them. Perhaps it was for the best.

Nale tried moving. All but one limb felt as if it had a free range of movement. His right arm, however, moved sluggishly, as if underwater. He flinched as it made contact with a smooth, hard surface less than a foot from his body.

The contact brought another memory to the surface. The sensations in his other limbs ebbed away, and their loss hit him like a load of bricks. He could turn his head slightly, but it was subject to the same sluggishness that plagued his arm.

Panic began to set in. But as it did, a momentary prick near his neck caused it to vanish as surely as his phantom limbs. A part of his mind screamed for him to stay conscious, but between the numbness spreading rapidly through his body and the general deprivation of his senses, it was overruled.

* * *

**June 20, 2181**

**Location unknown  
**

Multitasking was, technically, a fake ability. The real skill isn't in doing multiple things simultaneously, but rather being able to shift between activities rapidly and without much friction. The end result is the illusion of juggling multiple tasks, and Balak was very good at it. He had to be. He was a ranking member of the Special Interventions Unit, a unit commander, and possessed more clout within the Hegemony's structure than either of those admittedly-impressive ranks would suggest.

Balak was fiddling with his omni-tool, but glancing regularly at two other things. The first was a GDI Marine Corp 'Werewolf' Shapeshifter rifle. It was the genuine article, too, not an Elkoss Combine knockoff. Balak could make himself quite a few credits selling it to BSA, but that would defeat the purpose of having paid a morally-flexible contact in the salarian STG for it in the first place. For Balak, the source was very important. Werewolves were difficult to procure from GDI hands, though not impossible. What mattered to Balak was that it came to him without the seller first running roughshod over the complex inner-workings.

Balak hadn't needed a gun. He had plenty of guns already. What he'd needed was a test-case, and he'd got it.

The second object of his attention was a simple monitor, feeding him a constant stream of data as he requested it.

"Access: casualty reports, Ra'Ghul." He enunciated clearly. The Hegemony didn't have the finesse to produce VIs of Citadel quality, nor did they have the years of investment in AI research that gave GDI their EVAs. As such, Balak had to settle for a crude VI that was dressed up as something better than it was. Such was an awful lot of Hegemony 'high-tech' developments.

"_Casualty reports, Ra'Ghul_," the VI echoed before reading aloud various regional casualty statistics. Balak didn't react to the death figures. It was war. That was more justification for death than Balak usually had.

"_Would you like to know more?_"

"Access: casualty reports, Ra'Ghul, offworld transfers." He wanted an impression of how desperate high command was getting, and an easy way was to observe how the wounded were treated. If things were poor, they would be shipped off to improvised field hospitals a relatively short distance from the site of their last battlefield. If things were good, they'd be sent back to prominent medicaes in core worlds, and the more presentable of them would be subject to extensive news coverage. Nothing plucked at the heartstrings of the public quite like veterans who had given a limb for their cause and showed only eagerness to get back to battle.

Balak entered another series of commands into his omni-tool, and the Werewolf's acknowledgement lights went from blue to red. Cooling ports opened, but no steam erupted from the exposed heat-sink as coolant sprayed across it. He smiled as he double-checked the rifle. As far as the weapon knew, it was overheating. GDI weapons were notoriously hard to fool with ECM, but this was a potential boon Balak wouldn't see wasted.

It was only when he finished saving the command sequence in his omni-tool that he noted the VI's silence. Damned thing had probably asked him to verify the command while he wasn't paying attention.

"Access: casualty reports, Ra'Ghul, offworld transfers." He spoke as deliberately as he could, finally focusing his attention solely on the monitor.

"_Access not granted_. _Would you like to know more?_"

He wrote it off as an error once more time and repeated the command.

"_Access not granted._ _Would you like to know more?_"

The small victory with the Werewolf was swiftly forgotten. Balak pushed the rifle aside and focused on the contents of the monitor. It gave him the details of his denial, and they disturbed him more than any of the casualty reports he'd seen thus far.

'Insufficient clearance,' it read. Balak ran across that readout from time to time, but almost invariably, it vanished within seconds of his attempts to access the related files. A pleasant byproduct of the Hegemony's tight information control was that when somebody tried to access confidential documents, a flesh-and-blood batarian knew about it. And, as a result, if Balak Ka'hairal tried to access something beyond his official rank, there was always someone who took notice and rectified the 'misunderstanding' before it could escalate.

Not only was he locked out, but someone in Information Control was actively refusing to grant Balak access to this information. Worse, it was fairly run-of-the-mill data, too. Balak would've been able to rationalize it had it been the casualty report itself. Often times, the causes of death were covered up in the events of a new enemy weapon that could negatively impact public sentiment, or if SIU had made a move on a unit and left a few bodies behind. Instead, the locations to which the bodies were sent was kept secret. It was a minor detail of the larger war that he couldn't so much as glance at. Every alarm bell in Balak's head went off at that.

Balak gave a few more commands to the VI as he assembled his gear. His contacts were of limited use given the implied scope of the...'issue,' but they were enough to start him off. He didn't have a final destination for the shipments, but he had the first point they'd jumped from. He slotted a trio of fresh heat sinks into his modified AT-12 Raider. A start would be enough. Balak felt uninformed, and that was a problem. It spoke of a plot big enough to keep him in the dark, but stupid enough to openly deny him basic information. Whoever was behind it, they'd either tried to hide in plain sight and been unlucky, or had simply not cared enough to adequately cover their tracks. He planned to track it, and them, down to find out why.

Balak called in a minor favor, and he had a ride offworld.

And Hell followed with him.

* * *

**Codex - Ships and Vehicles - Archon Command Crawler****  
**_The Archon Command Crawler is a fusion of the REV10 Hound walker and the mothballed Warthog Support Crawler. The Warthog has existed since the Reclamation period, when mass effect technology was still being integrated into the Initiative across all branches of their military. It was intended to function as a mobile alternative to a support base, providing maintenance and light repairs for vehicles in the field unable to return to static bases. Unfortunately, the Albatross rapid-deployment firebase rendered this service largely redundant and not worth the resource investment required.  
_

_The REV10 Hound was the creation of the private defense company Trans World Operations. Steel Talon veterans designed it as a means to give soldiers a chance to operate units with walker-level firepower without requiring them to spend the long training period normally needed for such specialized troopers. Its design began with an older chassis of the Wolverine mech, and the final result was a walker that could be completely remotely controlled. Unfortunately, the transmission range was shorter than expected due to the required safeguards against ECM attacks. _

_The Hound project received fresh hope with the rediscovery of the Warthog, however. With a chassis almost as large as that of the MARV, the Warthog could be easily modified to house not only the control hubs for up to eight Hounds, but also the Hounds themselves. The strictly-defensive weapon systems that once limited the Warthog became little issue when it could transport and deploy a demi-lance of walkers, all of which could be controlled safely from within the Warthog. Rechristened the Archon, the new command crawler saw its first official action against the Batarian Hegemony in the Verge War._

* * *

**That certainly took me a while. Delays were largely due to the metric asston of characters I've introduced by now, but we're mostly done with that now. From here, we'll (again, mostly) just be working with the ones that are already on the table. **_  
_


	6. The Calm

**June 15, 2181**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul**

**Batarian territory**

"El-tee, got an eezo signature coming our way."

"Visual confirmation?" Lieutenant Carol Rawley replied, removing her Nightmare's weapon locks as a precaution. _Foehammer_ had three twin-barreled cannons that could each kill anything capable of atmospheric flight up to a frigate with just a few shots. Alongside _Sandman_ and _Iron Sky_, it was in charge of policing the airspace over the besieged batarian city.

"Confirmed, ma'am," the junior officer, Hale, replied, "Looks like a civie cargo ship. Barely spaceworthy, but I don't think they care."

"Shit. EVA, hail them," Rawley cleared her throat, "This is Lieutenant Carol Rawley. You're entering a no-fly zone. Turn back now, or-"

"_No! We need to get these people to a proper medicae!_"

"There are medical facilities established planetside, and allotted transportation for those who require it."

"_You think we can wait until next week for a sanctioned flight?_" the pilot's voice was hoarse and desperate. Rawley steeled herself. There were orders.

"Land and await further orders," Rawley ordered, "This is a no-fly zone. Land or…or you will be fired upon." Tuning off her mic for a moment, Rawley glanced at her copilot.

"What's their trajectory?"

"Not a collision course, ma'am, but…they're close. Too close."

"Fuck," Rawley squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment, then continued.

"Lock onto them, all three guns. If there's no change in course, take them down."

The sight of three heavy twin-linked cannons swiveling to draw a bead on the craft should have been enough of a warning. So should the likely warning signal of a successful target-lock, which even a remotely-spaceworthy ship should have the sensors to pick up. On her display, the ship didn't let up. It was only then that she doubted their stated intentions, trajectory or not. By then, it was too late.

The batarian ship's signal blossomed as it triggered high-powered afterburners. The Nightmare's cannons boomed, and the batarian ship exploded like it had hit by a stray bullet in an action flick.

It couldn't have been from the shot alone. The explosion was far too large for a target so small, and the explosion itself was somehow wrong. Rawley knew what something getting hit by a Nightmare's heavy cannons looked like. She'd seen it often enough, and this looked like something else altogether. She realized the extent of her mistake even before the shockwaves hit _Foehammer_, and every display in the cockpit flickered and died.

They started losing lift almost immediately, but the displays flickered back to life an instant later, thankfully. Still, the 'civilian' ship had been far too close. Any closer, and they'd have been falling from the sky as a burning wreck.

"Damage report!"

"Can't be right," Hale grunted, eyes darting over the newly-refreshed readouts. What had once been a sea of blue was now interspersed with an alarming amount of yellow and red, "Losing power in…ah, shit, it was some kind of EW charge along with the conventional explosives. Kinetics are down, backup capacitors burnt out. Engines are barely functioning. EVA, divert nonessential power to engines."

"_Caution: incoming hostile aircraft. Multiple land-to-air missile locks detected._"

"Countermeasures are offline, el-tee," Hale warned.

"Guns?"

"Running fine," Hale breathed a quick sigh. If they didn't have guns, then killing the sacrificial ship would've only extended their lives by a few seconds.

"Use them. We're sitting ducks if we can't get

"Diamondback is three minutes out_,_" the comm operator, Phelps, shouted over the newest damage-induced klaxon.

"We can't hold that long!" Rawley shouted back, "Tell Diamondback to move their-"

"Got barriers!" Hale interrupted, "Running at…shit, 28%. Mantis incoming!"

"Leung, Malk, get those AA guns running, damnit!" Rawley ordered.

* * *

Dmitri Leung, one of the Nightmare's three gunners, was already pulling himself into the seat, grabbing hold of the disused gun's controls. It was well maintained, certainly, but it had been weeks, if not months, since Leung had to use it in legitimate combat. It was designed with targets _above_ the Nightmare in mind, and very few ships fell into that category outside of starships.

Still, Leung was a gunner. Even with the disused controls in his hands, a gunship screamed into his path, and instinct took over. Mass accelerator fire blazed from the twin-barreled defense gun, ripping a wing from the Mantis gunship and sending it plummeting to the ground.

But it was only slightly faster than _Foehammer_ herself was falling. An explosion rocked Leung, even in his shock-resistant harness. Further down the Nightmare's hull, Adam Malkovich's AA gun blazed to life. Leung suppressed a cold feeling in his gut. The lieutenant had pulled two gunners off their cannons for AA duty. They were in deep.

"Too many for just our guns, el-tee!" Leung called out, never letting his thumbs off the firing stud, his own skill supplemented by the smart-sight system. Another Mantis went up in flames, but it meant little. It didn't take many shots from the Nightmare's gun to bring down a Mantis, and there were simply more ships than two defense guns, no matter how potent, to bring down.

Another detonation, and suddenly Leung had to force the gun's controls to get it to respond. Even then, they were slow, and no longer was there a drifting target reticule slaved to his helmet's HUD that allowed the smart-sight system to-

_Oh Christ,_ Leung realized, _Smart-sight's gone._

* * *

The controls felt like they weighed a ton, but Rawley fought against the pull of gravity. The engines were sputtering now, and two missiles from batarian shoulder-fired launchers below had struck the Nightmare's belly before Hale could restore their AMS.

"_Diamondback leader, en_ route," a new voice crackled in Rawley's ears, "Jesus,_ there's a lot of these bastards. Give us three minutes, tops._"

"Three minutes is wishful thinking. Our barriers can't hold out for that," Rawley replied, fighting for control of her dying craft, "Altitude loss alone is going to put us on the ground in two, and that's if I can-" she cursed, fighting another impact, "-that's if I can keep us from hitting any buildings on our way down."

"Foehammer, _this is _Iron Sky," a second voice voice, this one Kyle Garrison, pilot of another of the three Nightmares, "Stay_ in the air, goddamnit. ETA two minutes._"

Another detonation, another load added to the weight Rawley fought against at the control stick.

"_Interceptors inbound!_" Leung's voice cut in, laced by panic, "_Smart-sight's gone down! I can't-_"

Static filled the line, and an explosion rocked _Foehammer_. Rawley's controls felt like they weighed a ton. Nearly every damage indicator blinked from yellow to red. The altimeter ticked lower still. One set of crew biometrics, Leung's, flatlined. Malkovich's spiked, but his gun continued to fire.

Rawley kept struggling to control the Nightmare's burning descent.

There weren't many Mantises in the air, and they were disappearing as quickly as they passed. There didn't need to stay to fight. Rawley could barely slow their descent, and the Nightmare's AMS barely held the incoming surface-to-air missiles streaking from highrise windows at bay. _Foehammer_'s cannons, all linked to one man with Leung dead and Malkovich on the AA gun, blazed away at the root of any exhaust trails, obliterating entire floors.

Slowly but surely, _Foehammer_'s damaged systems forced it down to the city it was supposed to police. One Mantis gunship was shot down as it tried to prey upon it, but there were more than just the one, and the damage had already been done.

_Overhead_, Rawley remembered. Nothing should be above a Nightmare except for orbiting spacecraft. For a Nightmare, anything 'overhead' could exploit a fatal blindspot. They had three devastatingly accurate pairs of long-ranged cannons, but they were all mounted on the Nightmare's underbelly. There was nothing but two comparatively-light mass accelerators to defend it from above. There had been no need to design weapons to fight ships that either didn't exist or were so far out of the Nightmare's weight class that it would be a hopeless cause.

There were only the two other Nightmares and a single wing of Orcas in the air at any given time. _Foehammer_'s terminal descent had taken no more than two minutes. Burning and all but gutted, it hit the streets below. The first GDI responders arrived just in time to confirm what they already knew with a biometric scan.

There was no recovery for _Foehammer_'s crew. There was only the combined fire from two of Diamondback's Orcas and its fellow Nightmare _Iron Sky_ that reduced it to unsalvageable scrap.

* * *

**June 17, 2181**

**[EXPUNGED]**

**Batarian territory**

"Here are the reports you wanted, director."

The Director sighed and leaned back in his chair. His office was the sort of mess that came with any man who had far too much on his plate, and he was bone tired. Even his eyes were losing their healthy dark hue to pale tendrils of red.

Sometimes he envied the stamina of humans. They could function without problem for days with only the most basic of chemical supplements.

"Thank you. That will be all."

"Of course, director," the junior officer nodded and handed over the data slate. The Director's omni-tool automatically opened it when he touched it, and he opened the project summaries. It had been a wonderful day indeed when he'd implemented that policy: status reports for both on-site and off-site projects were to include a laconic version of the behemoth of a file it came with. The researchers didn't like it, but they liked having the funding to ensure that their projects could be conducted without fear for their own lives, and the Director controlled that funding.

**Project One: working prototypes completed. Blueprints are attached to full report. No problems from Clan Weyrloc. Weaponization pending approval.**

**Project Two: adequate source material recovered and damaged genetic strains repaired following failure of Series 1. Series 2 in progress. **

**Project Three: onboard munition fabricators now include high-explosive, anti-armor, anti-air, chemical, and electronic-warfare shells. Hover turbines pending optimization. **

**Project Four: weapons successfully field-tested, all meeting acceptable parameters for rapid replacement of current small arms. Distribution of fabricator codes in progress. Full deployment imminent. **

**Project Five: [report pending]**

That was to be expected. Project Five fell under the Director's immediate supervision, and it fell on him to make the reports. Of course, there wasn't much point in doing traditional status reports for himself, other than taking the first step down the road to madness.

"Dictation, new file," he said, tapping a key on his omni-tool. Magnetic bolts slid silently into place on his door. It was already 'quiet,' but that wouldn't prevent people from wandering in.

"_Dictation file ready._"

"Begin dictation. Project is proceeding more quickly than anticipated. What we have been given from the Leviathan are little more than hull scrapings, but it has taken a project that should have needed decades and handed it to us in little more than a year."

He could have simply written his daily log, of course. But he dealt with matters of the utmost secrecy on a regular basis, and if he couldn't occasionally talk to them, if only to himself, he'd drive himself mad.

"Subject integration is quick and all but seamless. If anything, the only trauma comes _before_ they can be worked on, during transit and storage. Mental health of the first subjects has actually improved, despite the obvious complications normally found in prototypes. They fully understand what has been done, and they are grateful for it."

The Director felt like he should be surprised at that, and he had been at first. But then he'd spoken with a subject who'd had his eyes gouged out by GDI troops and feared it would trap his soul in his body. After surgery, his eyes were no less damaged than they'd been before, but he could see again. If not for the damage, the Director was sure the man would've wept with relief.

"Project subgroup 'Martyr' has had more rapid advancements than subgroup 'Vigilant.' Vigilant requires more compact systems, but as subject integration is much less extensive, mass deployment will be viable within six months. Martyr's earliest estimation is eight months," he continued.

"Victory estimated within a year thereafter."

A comm line chirped with a signal from outside the facility. Off-world, even. If the caller knew how to reach him, much less had the authorization not to simply be turned away by the passive countermeasures, than he probably warranted the Director's attention.

"End dictation," he sighed, slowly blinking his tired eyes, "Open channel."

"_I…I have a problem._"

There was no need for introductions. The caller might not have had any obvious indicator of identity, but the Director recognized his voice and could call up his biography with a few waves of his omni-tool.

"And is it a problem for both of us?"

"_It could be. An old…ah, acquaintance of mine is asking questions. About your work, I mean._"

"Then stonewall him," the Director sighed, already guessing that things couldn't just be that easy.

"_It's not that easy._"

"Yes, it is," the Director snapped, "The work we're doing here _will_ win us the war. Anyone who needs to know about this already does."

"_But-_"

"But _nothing,_" the Director hissed, "None of us are safe right now. _None_ of us. All we need are a weak will and a loose tongue, and a cell of Commandos will bring this crashing down around our heads. And I sure as hell won't take the fall for that."

"Deal with this caste-jumping bastard however you deem necessary. But if nothing else, see that he is dealt with. Are we understood?"

"_I…yes. Yes, of course._"

The Director cut off the call without another word. He had enough on his plate as it was without adding a meddling outsider playing enforcer.

* * *

**June 18, 2181**

**Ra'Ghul**

**Batarian territory**

"_Firebase Easy, this is 'Fortress' troop carrier _Overlord_, requesting permission to land. Forwarding authorization codes now._"

"Your codes check out, _Overlord_. Pads two and three are locking together to accommodate your landing. Ground crews are ready to receive you."

"_Thanks, Easy. _Overlord_ out_."

"Commander Mitchell?"

"_Go ahead, control._"

"_Overlord_ is due to set down within the hour. Major Larkin is requesting an audience as soon as possible."

* * *

_I'll meet him on the tarmac_, Mitchell had replied. Sure enough, the great cargo bays of the 'Fortress' class troop carrier _Overlord_ were planted on the ground, and the ship was alive with motion from both his ground crews, the ship's own men, and the troopers it had been ferrying.

Mitchell didn't remove his helmet until the great ship's engines had died down and the flying dust had settled. If he wanted to sandblast his own eyes, he'd do it without the assistance of one of the largest dropships capable of atmospheric flight available to GDI.

The men and women of the 15th Special Operations Company were easy enough to pick out. Their armor was universally colored midnight blue, and there was a subtle sense of wrongness about their appearance that Mitchell couldn't quite put his finger on. He shelved the thought for consideration some other time. For now, he had a meeting with Major Saul Larkin.

Mitchell expected someone taller. Larkin was a few inches shy of six feet tall, even fully armored. He had no distinguishing scars or disfigurements, a receding hairline, and a natural, small smile on his lips.

He also had that same sense of indefinable _wrongness_ that his men exhibited. It scratched at the back of Mitchell's head, but again, he pushed it aside.

"Commander Mitchell," Larkin stopped in front of Mitchell and nodded, "Major Saul Larkin, 15th Special Operations."

There was no salute. Larkin struck Mitchell as the sort of man who wouldn't salute a member of the board of directors even if they were in a reinforced bunker, not so long as there was even a chance of enemy troops on the same continent. Mitchell could understand that, somewhat, at least. They _were_ in an active war-zone

"Good to have you with us, major," Mitchell returned the nod, "I've heard quite a bit about what your company can do. Got a situation that seems right up your alley."

"Just point us in the right direction," Larkin smiled. The 15th's special designation was 'Siegebreakers,' and they were renown for their efficiency. 'Efficiency,' Mitchell noted, was rarely attributed to soldiers who were remembered fondly by their enemies.

* * *

**Eighteen hours later**

"_Spider ADT_ _online, commander_._ That's all of them._"

Commander Mitchell gave his acknowledgement to the last of the operators. There was little else needed. The Spider Automated Defense Turret was, as the name indicated, a purely automated unit; he wouldn't need to authorize any attacks, nor would there be any hesitation in said attacks. The loss of a Nightmare with all hands had been the last straw.

Thankfully, Mitchell had Major Larkin. His Special Operations company was a godsend. They did not earn the special designation of Siegebreakers without merit. The Spiders ringing the city would bring down unauthorized aircraft without putting a single one of the soldiers under his command in harm's way.

"_This isn't permanent, mind you_," Major Larkin broke into the transmission.

"How so?"

"_We've still got hostiles inside the city, not to mention food and water to keep them sustained._"

"Then humor me, major. How would _you_ fix those?"

"_Nothing fancy. We've made the noose with the Spiders. Now we just use the infantry and your tanks to tighten it._"

"Until when, major? They've got thousands hidden among millions. Even with our troops, we can't root through those sorts of numbers at an acceptable pace without unacceptable losses."

"_Let me worry about that. Until then, we simply apply pressure._"

"You mean starve them." It wasn't a question.

"_Essentially, yes. Limit the amount of food and medicine that goes in, and what little they've got left will dry up in no time._"

"Assuming they don't just cut the civilians out of the loop to keep themselves supplied."

"_They won't._"

"And you know this…?"

"_Call it a hunch_."

* * *

**June 22, 2181**

**Batarian world: Ra'Ghul**

**Batarian territory**

"_More troops coming in_," a voice came in through Geralt's earpiece. By this point, he'd just started assuming that any newly arriving troops would be enemy reinforcements unless specified otherwise. And the trooper's tone didn't exactly sound happy with his report, so the observer had little need to confirm if the arrivals were human.

"Keep me informed of changes. And unit compositions, if possible."

"_Understood, observer._"

Until the past few days, Geralt hadn't fully appreciated their ability to get a dropship off-planet laden with their wounded. It took the realization that GDI's new 'no-fly' zone was going to be enforced to the fullest extent of their capability to drive home how fortunate they'd been to dispatch a ship before the city could be fully sealed off.

Now, not even civilian ships could get out. There was no radio contact offered, and no communications were received. Only surface-to-air missiles, and they had yet to miss their targets. A few brave (or foolish) souls had tried to run the blockade, and each of them was now entombed in the smoldering wreckage of their ship.

Even relief vessels were becoming less common. Civilians had been passing on food and medicine to the hidden military assets, but the flow was dwindling more and more as the days wore on. The humans either knew what was going on, or they were simply deciding that it was time to tighten the noose.

"Enforcer, this is Observer actual, do you read me?" Geralt opened a new channel. They had precious few allies in the city with the means to hold out should the humans make a move on the city, and the bastion fittingly dubbed 'Enforcer' was one of them.

"_Loud and clear, observer. Enforcer actual here._"

"My scouts are seeing a lot of movement. The humans aren't going to wait much longer."

"_Why would they hurry? They're already starving us to death. They've certainly seen to that._"

"Maybe, but they're landing in greater force. We can't count on them to sit back and hope we die of boredom."

"_Hah. True enough. Do you have a plan?_"

Geralt was hearing that phrase a lot in the past few days: 'Do you have a plan?' He was a political officer, an observer. It was even his official title. But the highest-ranked officer he'd been in contact thus far was a company commander with barely more than a platoon to his name. Geralt's status as technically outside the chain of command seemed to translate to superior authority, and everyone in a position to do anything was deferring to his judgment.

Even if it wasn't his duty to take full command, his duties as an observer obligated him to maintain both morale and the chain of command. If it took a few officers following his 'advice' to keep their men active and inspired, then he would do it.

"Possibly. How's your situation?"

"_Could be worse, I suppose, though I can't think how,_" Enforcer actual replied, "_I've only got barely a tenth of my department up and running, and we're getting a lot of wounded coming in. That big gunship going down took a lot of civies with it. The local medicaes are overwhelmed as it is, so they're coming to us instead._"

"And weapons?"

"_Enough Terminators and Executioners to keep my men armed, but that isn't saying much. I've got a few men working on our mechs to see if they can't give us a few dozen metal bodies to put between us and the humans. Got a few bigger guns from the evidence lockers, but the best finds there are a few Kishocks._"

Geralt took a deep breath. He knew that the situation was bad, and similarly knew that it would probably come to this. That didn't make the decision any easier.

"What if I could get you some bigger guns?"

"_How big?_"

"Anti-vehicle launchers. Cutting-edge assault weapons. That kind of big."

"_Then I'd ask who I need to kill to get my hands on a haul like that._"

"Just leave it to me," Geralt swallowed the lump in his throat, "I'll might not be in contact for a few hours, but there'll be a man on the comms. Check in every half-hour, over."

"_Roger, observer actual. Over and out._"

Geralt silently sent a confirmation through his omni-tool. He'd already made the preparations, so all he needed to do was green light them and take his place. Ever since his field promotion, Squad Commander Greggor had been adapting quickly to his new role. He'd do well enough on his own until Geralt returned. Assuming he returned at all, that is.

"_Orders confirmed, observer. We're loaded and ready._"

He'd only be taking two of the soldiers along with him. No more were needed. Their cargo wouldn't be very large at all, if things went according to plan.

Or they would die. That was an equal possibility.

* * *

**June 22, 2181**

**Iliyan**

**Hegemony territory**

"You know why I'm here."

Balak Ka'hairal needed no further introductions. Fleet Commander Kent Ga'Dal knew he was coming. Announcing his presence was a mere formality, especially considering Balak had just opened the door to an office that supposedly only Kent had the access codes to unlock.

"Make this easy for me, Kent," Balak's official rank would've made such informality an affront to the fleet commander's status, but Balak had never been one for such customs. Despite it being so deeply set in batarian society, Balak was disgusted by the entire caste system. It implied that people should respect someone for reasons unrelated to how much they actually _deserved_ the respect.

This said quite a bit about Balak. Most people he knew respected him. Those who knew him and did not usually lived in absolute fear of him. But, (un)fortunately, they rarely needed to do that for long.

Kent was still silent. the office was dark, but not so dark that Balak couldn't see the fleet commander seated behind his desk, slumped over a variety of data slates. Balak closed the door, and his night vision began to kick in without the light of the hallway to interfere.

The first thing he saw was the ale bottle beside an empty tumbler. The fleet commander had once had a rather severe drinking problem, but he'd been on the wagon for years, and Balak knew he was not the sort to relapse in time of war.

The second thing he saw was the gun. It was a basic navy-issue sidearm, resting on the desktop next to the empty glass and ale bottle. Balak had always been one to err on the side of caution, and a man with alcohol and a gun was almost never a non-risk. Even then, he didn't bring any of his own weapons to bear.

That was because the third thing he saw was the hole in Kent's head.

With a wave of his omni-tool, Balak sealed the door behind him. The office would be sound-proofed, so unless someone was physically seeking the fleet commander, his death would go undiscovered for hours, at least. It was still a big assumption to make, so Balak went to work immediately.

Any information that could be gleaned and analyzed somewhere other than the office was taken immediately. Entry logs for the door. Security feeds from the hallway outside. No cameras in the office itself, of course. It was undoubtedly a quiet room. Most high ranking officers in the Hegemony made sure that their offices were safe havens from outside listeners, lest they be SIU agents.

Kent had apparently not been so lucky. Balak's immediate impression was 'suicide.' He'd arranged a good few 'suicides' in his time with SIU, and it was almost laughably easy in an area that didn't have any surveillance equipment. Devices that could force a man to hold a gun to his own head were laughably easy to procure for an agent of the Special Interventions Unit, and plenty of them were technologically crude enough for someone to improvise one with enough skill. Hell, the better SIU agents knew how to improvise such a device from little more than a neck brace, an enforcer's cuffs, and some strong wire. Balak certainly could.

The entire scene was too clean. Balak had no doubt that the security logs would register nobody in or out (before him, of course) for hours. And here was a high ranking Hegemony officer, fallen off the wagon with-

Balak checked the bottle. Batarian ale had an alcohol content of thirty percent, and there was barely any left in the bottom. A cursory glance at the desk saw a few pieces of wax, broken when the cap had been twisted off. A new bottle, then.

-a high-ranking officer fallen off the wagon with a costly war to organize. It had just been too much, and he'd taken the easy way out-

Too damn clean. It was practically a textbook example of how to arrange a 'suicide.'

He'd known Kent. He'd drunk with him, too, back when Kent still did. The man could drink an entire bottle of uncut ale and end up with barely a slur to his speech. Whoever had been her before Balak hadn't known that. He'd known the facts about Kent, sure, but nothing that detailed. They hadn't known how much it would take for a man like Kent to contemplate killing himself over a difficult and bloody war.

Without touching the body, Balak looked at Kent's right wrist and neck. He snorted and reluctantly gave the unknown party some credit. Usually, the braces that forced an unwilling person to hold a gun to their own head left telltale marks on the wrist and neck, both of them points of resistance. Balak couldn't see any on either part of Kent's body.

For a moment, he imagined the brace. It covered the shoulders, neck, and whatever wrist that had the gun at the end of it. From there, a wire attached to the wrist and neck would pull the wrist until the muzzle of the pistol could point nowhere else but at the temple. Sometimes, the agent involved was stupid enough to forget how important the finger that supposedly pulled the trigger was. They either broke it forcing it under the trigger guard, or pulled the trigger themselves and forced the finger into the proper position afterward.

But…Balak had a reluctant respect for whoever had pulled this off. Their only flaw had been how clean they left things. There wasn't even a suicide note. That was a common trait among amateurs. Everyone seemed to think that the soon-to-be-dead always wanted the living to know why they were punching their own ticket.

When someone is so deep in despair that they kill themselves on the spot, they aren't caring about what other people think. They just want out. They're not likely thinking clearly, but that's the truth of it. Notes are for the guilty or the vindictive, by and large.

Balak suddenly felt angry. For a long moment, he considered drawing his own sidearm and putting a second bullet through Kent's head. Kent had been a good officer, not to mention a consistent and valuable source of information. He'd contacted him the day before in the hopes that a meeting with him would be the solution to Balak's mystery.

Instead, Kent was just another mystery.

With a quick input of commands on his omni-tool, a data core fabricated and ejected into Balak's free hand. He slotted it into Kent's terminal, and the STG program went to work immediately. He didn't have many of them, and he didn't have the technological know-how to duplicate them himself. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and Kent was a literal dead-end. He'd either let the lead slip away, or find his next destination.

The Hegemony's obsessively insular nature made even the most basic access difficult for potential spies. Thankfully, Balak was as batarian as they came, and there were almost comically few safeguards against threats from within the very offices of the devices that were being compromised. It was a flaw that Balak planned to correct, but not until he was finished with his current mission.

The STG program ate through junk data at an alarming rate. Balak had a genuine respect for salarians. Most of his 'acquired' tech was of salarian origins, and it had saved his life on several occasions.

There was banging on the door. The late fleet commander's security detail had finally been roused, possibly Kent's own lack of activity. Either way, they were at the door, and there was only one door. Balak heard muffled commands being called out, but ignored them. He only needed a few seconds more, and he had them.

Unplugging the data-laden core, he walked confidently to the door and opened it. Four guards were on the other side, and all of them (to their credit) had their weapons raised before the door finished cycling open. Balak did not draw a weapon, nor disable theirs. It took a moment before their helmets' IFFs recognized him, and they all snapped to attention.

"The fleet commander has been shot," Balak announced, lacing his voice with indignation. If these men were anything resembling bright, they'd recognize at least a few of the same things Balak had seen resembling foul play upon further investigation, and that could cause problems for him if he didn't meet them head-on.

"Your orders, sir?" one asked, eyes flickering to the interior of the office. Balak paid it no mind. There was indeed a glimmer of knowing intelligence in their obedience, and Balak knew how to exploit it.

"Round up the usual suspects."

The response was immediate. With crisp salutes, the four immediately departed, two of them barking orders over their omni-tools. They knew the score, and they knew that their actions now would determine whether or not they were commended and promoted, or finding themselves with a visit from someone like Balak, just as Kent had.

_Presumably, at least_, Balak thought. The guards would assume it an SIU sanctioned killing, but that would just keep them off his back. The Enforcer Corp had an unspoken agreement with SIU: as long as SIU was clean about their work, the enforcers would pretend to believe that they actually were suicides.

But Balak still had the actual killers to contend with. And for that, he'd need to find something amidst the data he'd ripped from the late-Kent's terminal.

It would take time, but Balak had STG codebreaker programs. He didn't need time.

* * *

**June 22, 2181**

**Ra'Ghul**

**Hegemony territory**

The civilian landcar stopped in front of what appeared to be an average state housing unit: tall, blocky, and packed with people. It wasn't much in the way of luxury, but thousands of average Hegemony citizens called it home.

And it _was_ an average state housing unit, save for one average looking door on an average looking level, filled with average looking batarians who glanced out their doors to see what the commotion was about only to quickly withdraw when they saw three Hegemony soldiers in the hallway.

The average looking door swung open when the soldier with the shoulder-insignia of an Observer slid his ident-card into the receiver. The three stepped inside, and the door swung shut again.

From the hallway, none of the citizens could see that the door was about twice as thick as a normal one.

Geralt used his credentials to seal the door again from within, then sought out the extranet terminal. This was the part that would be most likely to kill him. He informed his two escorts of this fact.

"Oh."

"Alright, details," Geralt started up the terminal and sat down, "You're in an SIU outpost. Specifically, an SIU outpost with a strong enough offworld connection to receive new data from the powers-that-be."

"What was the part about us getting killed again?" one of the two asked.

"There are…countermeasures. To prevent unauthorized use, that is," Geralt muttered, now tapping away at the haptic interface, "Most of them more active than just a really strong door."

"So right now-"

"-right now I'm deactivating them," Geralt finished the question with an answer, "And if I do it wrong, we'll probably die."

"But…you know how to get past them, right?"

"Probably. Observers aren't SIU. Technically, we're not even military. But we _can_ access the SIU codes to deactivate the-" he paused for a moment, fingers freezing in place, and tapped one key very deliberately. The two soldiers held their breath until Geralt let out a sigh of relief. They followed suit.

"As I was saying, I can access the codes, even if I'm not SIU."

"Why were you worried then?"

"Because the codes change every so often, and what with us being invaded, there was a chance that the terminal automatically changed codes and SIU neglected to update their record of it, or that they updated their codes and the terminal was still working off the old ones," he smiled somewhat brightly.

"But hey, we got through. No viral dispersal agent melting our lungs, and full access to-"

"No viral _what_?"

"Relax," Geralt's omni-tool quickly fabricated an empty data core that he plugged into the terminal, "I was kidding. It's probably just anti-personnel charges or something. SIU doesn't have the budget to rig every safehouse terminal with flesh-eating viruses."

"I thought we were looking for a weapon cache, sir. At least that's what the squad-commander told us."

"Technically true," Geralt ejected the data core, then inserted another one as he stashed the first, "But a weapon cache is limited. These," he ejected the second core and stowed it with the first, "Are unlimited." He paused, then repeated the process on two more data cores.

"No sense not getting backups, though." He looked through some more of the data, checking if anything else might be useful. There was no risk now that the safeguards were offline, but the sooner he returned to the enforcer HQ or the former-parking garage, now-militia base, the better.

One file caught his eye, and he opened it.

Nothing could have prepared him for the contents.

* * *

On the first floor and above, the enforcers and their allies were arming for war. It was the subterranean firing range, ironically, that was isolated from such preparations. The reason for that was simple enough: it was a long, wide room located below ground level. And given the hundreds of wounded who had been brought to the enforcer HQ, the firing range's value as an improvised infirmary far outweighed its normal uses.

The enforcers had been able to impose some order to it all, but that was little more than ensuring a few clear lanes of travel for the medical personnel. There were only two areas sealed off. One held those who were not expected to survive their injuries. A half-dozen privacy screens had been set up to shield them from the view of the general population. The screens were fairly high-end tech. They were normally used by enforcers to conceal particularly brutal crime scenes from prying eyes, and could even dampen outgoing noise.

The other isolated area, however, was reserved for those among the refugees who were still minors. Anyone older than fourteen was an adult as far as the law was concerned, but for the rest…they couldn't even join a militia for at least two years more, much less hold any responsibility for the human invasion. They were helpless by law.

Enforcer Caius Fer'dun was making his way to the minor's section. Those navigating the pathways of the 'infirmary' gave him wide berth. He was an enforcer, after all, and that commanded equal measures fear and respect from the general population.

But as of late, there had been less fear. It had confused Caius at first. He had no illusions about the brutality that came with his profession, but it had always been with the intention of maintaining order to further the common good.

Lately, there had been quite a bit of chaos, but the enforcers didn't respond with riot squads and late-night raids on locals with prior convictions. They'd tried something different to compensate for the men they'd lost to militia conscriptions. They kept order with a gentler hand, replacing glares of suspicion to passers-by with simple nods of acknowledgement.

Caius had been passed over for military conscription because of his skill set. He had trained all of the enforcer's varren for this city sector, and he was one of the few who could ensure they followed commands. When a GDI gunship had crashed on an apartment building, he'd brought out a group of his varren to help the search for civilians under the rubble.

When he'd let the varren loose, onlookers were paralyzed. Enforcer varren were riot-dispersion tools, or for chasing down runners. They were 'nonlethal' tools in that they could be trained to maim their targets instead of outright killing them.

Probably for the first time in their memory, the varren warbeasts were being used to help them. Not to kill 'for their own good,' either. Simply…to help.

Training just a few steps behind Caius was Sten. Most varren could grow up to six feet from head to tail, and weighed over four hundred pounds. Sten was an alpha varren. That fact alone meant that he was the biggest, meanest varren among a pack that had been bred specifically for enforcer work.

Sten was close to eight feet long, and well over six hundred pounds. His jaw was partially hidden behind the standard enforcer 'muzzle.' It was anchored in the bone of his lower jaw and could keep a varren from so much as opening its mouth without its hander's authorization. Varren had exceptionally powerful jaws: they could crack bone and even light hardsuits without much trouble, but an adult of only average strength could reliably hold their jaws closed with relatively little effort.

The image of enforcer and warbeast should have been terrifying. Instead, passers-by nodded and smiled, even offering occasional words of gratitude. Not only were they not cowed into submission by his presence, they were _grateful_ for it.

It was an epiphany that brought Caius down among the wounded and displaced. He had an opportunity to be something other than feared, without losing control over the populace.

As soon as the minors came into view, Caius clicked his tongue. Sten trotted in front of him, and the minors reacted immediately.

They were _excited_.

"A real varren!"

"It's so big!"

"Can I pet it, sir?"

They weren't old enough to be afraid of him, or of Sten. They'd never been on the receiving end of an enforcer's submission net or a varren's jaws. They had the ingrained respect for authority that any good Hegemony citizen needed to keep out of the judicial system, but that was it. To them, Caius was a figure of awe that had come to visit them, and he'd brought along an animal big enough to ride on.

"Go ahead," Caius found himself smiling. PR operations were not uncommon for enforcers, but those usually had at least some inkling of threat behind them. Even Sten seemed confused, but that only lasted a few seconds. He hadn't been ordered to attack, and he was being patted, so that must mean he was allowed to enjoy it. Caius had raised Sten since he'd been a pup and could tell when he was content, so he issued a signal though his omni-tool. With a soft _click_, the jaw-lock released.

Normally, a subdermal autoinjector would send a shot of stimulants into the varren's bloodstream to drive them into further frenzy, but that required a two-part command that Caius did not transmit. Instead, Sten's jaw was free, and he was perfectly happy with a tiny figure balanced on his massive shoulder blades and a half-dozen hands rubbing his scaly hide.

As soon as his jaw was free, his long tongue lashed out, nearly lifting the tiny figure in front of him off their feet with an enthusiastic lick. The minor giggled at the obvious sign of affection, and the attention to the varren redoubled. Sten even (Caius nearly had to do a double take at the sight of it) rolled over for the minors.

Enforcer varren were trained so that aggression was something that had to be triggered. Even domestic varren, to say nothing of wild varren, were potentially dangerous if handled improperly. But a well-trained enforcer varren wouldn't hurt anything outside their own species unless given the go-ahead, or failing that, a shot of chems to encourage their natural aggression.

Caius noticed a distinct silence around him. He turned and saw a solid twenty adults looking on with shock. Caius had to resist the urge to draw his sidearm and call for backup. He'd seen such a look before. It was a look devoid of fear, so surprised by the sight before them that they were capable of anything, up to an including killing the enforcer responsible for the sight.

Then they started smiling. Some even laughed when Sten started giving affectionate laps of his serpentine tongue. Caius was at a loss. What he done to deserve actual admiration? The enforcers had readily accepted them into their HQ, certainly, and kept them supplied, but that was-

It hit him like a blast from a tank cannon. Beneath the brutality and rule by fear, the enforcers wanted to protect the citizens under their watch. Judicator Yan'ful had converted an entire floor of his building to receiving refugees without a moment's hesitation. He was the same man who would order the release of varren just like Sten at the first sight of a 'protest' spiraling beyond anything but peaceful.

Caius had joined the Enforcer Corp because he'd wanted to help. And for once, he could say that they were there to help without any trace of bitterness. They always wanted to help, but rarely was it ever to the liking of the common citizen. They were a necessity.

Sten had one of the minors pinned to the ground, and the minor was shrieking. But there was mirth where there should've been pain and terror, a friendly lapping tongue where there should've been tearing fangs and gnashing jaws. Even onlookers who knew exactly what Caius felt about the scene found themselves smiling. Their world had been turned upside-down in recent weeks, with the omnipresent grip of the Hegemony being the unconquerable presence in their lives suddenly losing its grip.

And suddenly, it wasn't a regime of faceless automatons forcing them into compliance. It was a government of people just like them, fighting against the odds not to keep up appearances, but because it came to them naturally.

Plenty of men of higher status than Caius had feared insurrection after the Hegemony had proved unable to hold GDI at the border worlds. But Caius could see another outcome: a populace who respected the hands of the Hegemony because in a time of strife and hardship, they'd been there to prove that they truly were there to help.

* * *

Judicator Thule Yan'ful had roughly thirty of his enforcers left. It was a pitiful shadow of their former strength given the dense population center they had once policed, but Thule could hardly change it. Fully half his men had been pulled into militias, and still more had voluntarily been shifted to military units in light of…

Thule sighed. In light of the siege. He was an enforcer. He knew how sieges worked: a prolonged standoff with a bloody gunfight at its end. That said, being on the receiving end of things was a new and unpleasant thing for him.

Then again…he was no mere gunman holed up in an apartment block. He had the militias and the military alongside him, and thirty-odd enforcers at his command. He had the ORCUS riot-control mechs and the Boxguards. His men were already modifying them for combat. _Real_ combat. Not civilian pistols, firebombs, and thrown half-bricks. It would take some time, and it wouldn't be perfect, but they'd be as ready as they could be before the humans came.

"Judicator," one of his men snapped a closed fist across his chest in a quick salute, "Am I interrupting?"

"No, enforcer," he waved a hand dismissively, "Just thinking. Is it done?"

"Yesssir," the enforcer nodded, "All non-violent offenders have been released, and the ones with ganger markings have been-"

"Thank you, enforcer," Thule interrupted, "I'll see the 'volunteers' now."

The enforcer nodded, taking only a moment to transmit a set of commands to the judicator's omni-tool. Thule verified them as they walked to the holding cells.

Some things were universal across civilized cultures. Temporary holding cells were one such thing: reinforced bars surrounding a single large room with a few benches lining the sides.

Approximately fifty men were sitting on those benches. Only a handful were wearing any form of body armor, and even then it was nothing more than ballistic vests and shooting gloves. The rest were wearing some variation of civilian plainclothes.

A common trait, however, was bandages at the base of the skull, and more than a few men were massaging the inflamed skin that surrounded it.

Thule calmly opened the door and walked inside the cell. The enforcer escort tensed, but said nothing. A few of the inmates stared at him in surprise, but they, too, said nothing, though more out of shock than anything else.

"You have ten seconds to stand at attention," Thule announced loudly, and a hush fell over the inmates. Several laughed aloud. Those who started to stand stopped when they saw themselves among the minority. Thule mentally counted out the full ten seconds. He wouldn't get anywhere by being anything less than sincere in both promises and threats with a lot like this.

Among the men, a few of the smarter ones looked visibly uncomfortable. They knew something was about to happen, but nothing could've prepared them for it.

"Time's up." He flicked a hand over his omni-tool, and there was a terrible moment as every man gasped, unable to find enough of a voice to scream in pain.

The moment passed, and they screamed. More than a few fell onto the bare floor, clutching themselves to try and dull the pain. It did them no good. Thule waited for five seconds before sending out a second command.

Again, as one, the panicked thrashing stopped, and the cell was filled with bewildered and frightened expressions.

"You've all been given an entry-level control implant. We have hundreds of the damn things, because people like you think that drugging someone and sticking them with a 'collar' is just as good as buying a slave like the rest of us," Thule said loudly enough to be heard over the groans of pain, "We're the ones who need to pull them out, and you're damn lucky we decided to put you out beforehand."

"You just got a five-second burst, because I was in a generous mood," he continued, "The next will be ten seconds. I don't care how hard you think you are: these plug right into your pain receptors. You'll feel every bit of whatever I decided you deserve."

"Now let's try this again: you have ten seconds to stand at attention. And if even _one_ of you isn't up by then, you're _all_ getting another burst."

By the six-second mark, even the most bewildered of them was standing up as straight as he could manage. A few were still whimpering, but it was understandable.

"Now, let me tell you why you're worth my attention," Thule stepped further into the cell to give every man an equal view of him, "You're all gangers. You were so proud of it that you had it etched into your skin. For your pride, you get to choose one of two things: summary execution, or complete amnesty from whatever crimes put you here."

Stunned silence followed. Responding seemed like a trick, given the cranial implant-shaped barrel the judicator held them over. Thule nodded.

"I take it everyone wants amnesty?" A couple men looked confused. They were quickly elbowed by those next to them and, quickly and quietly, explained what 'amnesty' meant.

"Good," Thule nodded again, "You're all honorary enforcers. Even the rookie who does the lunch-runs outranks you, but it's something. And it means you get to fight for your nation against the alien invaders." There were several looks of dismay. They were going to be cannon-fodder for GDI guns.

"You'll all be getting guns." The looks of dismay evaporated. "You'll be expected to follow the orders of any enforcer who issues them. Your job is now to protect and serve until I say otherwise."

"I'm sure a few of your are thinking that once you get a gun, you're as good as free," he continued, "You'll just kill any enforcers stuck with you, then melt back into the alleys." His omni-tool lit up as his hand moved over it.

Not a single man could stop from flinching, even if their 'collars' didn't so much as twinge.

"If I hear something that even _implies_ you've let one of my men come to harm, I will let you _all_ feel it," Thule's voice took on a razor's edge, "If you can even still speak, you'll _beg_ for death when you feel a human boot across your throat."

"That's if you cross me," he softened his tone, if only enough to take the hard edge from it, "If you fulfill your duty and survive the fighting, you'll be free. I don't care what you did to end up here. I don't have the privilege of caring. Do your part, show up to get your 'collars' off, and you'll be free men."

There was doubt on the faces a few of the older gangers. Most of them were the ones wearing body armor, men old enough to know that a promise meant relatively little unless it was given real weight. Their skinstains were simple, monochromatic, and faded with age, likely the work of prison ink-jobs.

Once they had guns in their hands, that doubt would fade.

"I am Judicator Thule Yan'ful. Not long ago, I would have just executed the lot of you for simplicity's sake. I'm sure you feel the same way about me and mine. Times change. Maybe men change, too. Show me you have what it takes to fight when your homeland needs you, and you'll have your freedom."

Introductions were over: now it was time for logistics.

"How many of you have ever handled a gun?" Thule asked. Most hands went up. That was a small comfort.

"How many of you have ever handled a rifle, shotgun, or an automatic of any kind?" A few hands went down, but not too many.

"And how many of you have actual training with firearms? Military, private security, doesn't matter." Now only a few hands were still up. Most of them were those men who still had their body armor.

_Small comforts_, Thule smiled internally, _But get enough of them, and I can almost hope we're going to survive_.

His omni-tool flashed with an incoming signal.

"You all stay here," he unlocked the cell door and stepped out, "Someone will see you shortly about equipment. If you had your own when you were brought in, then all the better."

Once he was out of earshot, he opened his end of the signal. It was the observer, hopefully with good news.

"I hear you, observer actual. Any luck?"

"_Plenty. Forwarding two sets of codes to you now._"

Thule watched the incoming data with curiosity. One was a set of fabrication codes guarded by SIU-strength encryption, but the other was an encryption key. The connection was obvious enough.

"_Take a look at the fabrication codes, judicator,_" the Observer had dropped the callsigns. He was either unworried about enemies listening in, or he was simply too relieved to care. Maybe both.

"Already checking them. They're…" Thule trailed off as various specifications and images flashed across the display over the omni-tool. There were even comparisons to their existing counterparts.

"I've never seen these models before," Thule murmured.

"_That's because they're barely out of development. The fabrication codes are still being distributed_," the Observer replied, "_They're combat-tested, but on a scale so small I doubt GDI even noticed them._"

"And we can produce them on enforcer fabricators?" Thule asked.

"_Not just that: you can even produce them civilian fabricators, if they're large enough._"

"How can these numbers be right? The material demands and quality shouldn't be-"

"_But they are. They're better across the board than nearly anything we have already and they're cheaper and faster to produce._"

"I'll start production immediately," Thule gave a rare, genuine smile, "Our armory's no factory, but it'll get the job done."

"_Good,_" the Observer paused, then added, "_There was more on the Interventions terminal I got these from, judicator. A lot more. Things I can't tell you about in detail, not yet anyway. But know that things are going to change, judicator. This is just the start._"

* * *

**June 22, 2181**

**Civilian freighter**

**Hegemony territory**

Even in his dreams, he was trying to figure 'It' out. He wasn't entirely sure what 'It' was, but 'It' had to be important.

'It' had brought him to three target planets already. Only one of them wasn't already on the commercial ship's itinerary (as it had been selected for its course), but a few credits transferred has ensured an 'unforeseen layover' to all of Balak's target world.

Two leads were busts. That didn't stop them from leaving behind seventeen bodies, two torched buildings, and several wrecked enforcer pursuit cars following a nasty high-speed chase. The third world had been his last option before he'd need to call in some truly heavy favors or start causing much more mayhem. Possibly both, and not in that order, either. Balak was determined to find whatever 'It' was, but he was patriotic, to a point. He'd prefer not to start crippling the Hegemony's ability to make war for the sake of his private investigation.

But the third world, and the third lead…that had paid off. It had given him a dead fleet commander and and several ship IDs, all originating from Ra'Ghul, and all following _slightly_ different patterns, but all of them intersecting at one world: Camala. It just so happened that Camala was not only a Hegemony core planet, but also was the location of one of the most prominent medicaes in the sector.

Camala's shipyards also had no record of dead or wounded soldiers being imported from the frontlines. The ship cargo manifests carried a few supplies that could be bound for any number of military or government facilities, but nowhere near enough of them to fill their cargo bays to capacity.

Balak would either find what he was looking for there, or he'd find out where he needed to go next.

* * *

Balak's eyes snapped open. The intercom wired into the cargo container that served as his 'room' for the trip had buzzed to life.

"…_if we find anyone still in their rooms by the time we get there, you die, plain and simple._"

Ah. Pirates.

Balak looked around his 'room.' There was an entry-level civilian terminal that could probably get stable extranet access if the planets were aligned, the cot he was sitting up on, and a set of wire racks that passed as a shelf for clothing and personal effects. He instinctively began assessing how much of it could be adapted into some form of weaponry.

Then he smirked. It was a rare thing for him, and almost always preceding someone becoming unbelievably miserable.

In this case, it was because he'd been considering improvised weaponry when he was probably better outfitted than any man aboard the ship. Or any dozen men, for that matter. He was already locking his armor into place.

The AT-12 Raider would be doing the bulk of the legwork if it came to-

He smirked. _Again._ This was truly a day for the record books.

-_when_ it came to violence.

By default, the weapon was effectively a double-barreled shotgun. SIU agents favored it for its ability to rapidly kill anything at close range, but Balak knew that the two-shot limit of a standard heat sink was a crippling weakness. Targets that truly merited the attention of an SIU agent's Raider were rarely alone, so he adapted.

Balak's Raider was bulkier than the standard model, but it was worth every extra ounce. It had a total of three heat sinks fitted within a revolving chamber that rotated with every other pull of the trigger. Two shots were now six, and by the time he reached the sixth, the first two had cooled enough to be used again. Usually, at least. Fired like a semi-automatic shotgun, it still required time to dump excess heat, but Balak had been using the weapon for years. He knew the pace that let him fire it nearly continuously without ever needing to replace a heat sink during a firefight. He'd slag the barrel first, or burn out the heat sink completely.

For the average citizen, such a weapon would be unbelievably illegal. For an SIU agent, much less for Balak, it was perfectly acceptable.

Shouting from outside. Several bursts of gunfire, their impacts somewhere above him. The pirates were firing warning bursts from their guns. That told Balak several things. The first, and most important, was what kind of weapons they had: two Terminator assault rifles, one Avenger. Cheap, yes. Reliable? Definitely. Or a least mostly. The Terminator series was BSA issue. It was almost assuredly less reliable than the Avenger, but humans considered the Avenger to be even more resilient than their ancient Kalashnikov series. If his plan relied on the Terminators jamming or malfunctioning on their own, he would have been better off giving up now.

Balak let the door of his 'room' swing open slightly. He was on the second stack of four. The captain of the freighter had apparently decided that paying passengers would bring in much-needed income to compensate for whatever had been sapped by the war, so he'd simply given four layers of storage crates the necessary accommodations (sparse as they were) to qualify as passenger-worthy.

Balak's guess had been right: three men, all with assault rifles. The very fact they needed to fire warning shots right off the bat was enough for Balak to question their qualifications for piracy. That was the problem was spacefaring criminals that the Hegemony had sought to correct: there was no entrance exam for pirates, but any pirate who wanted the edge to last for anything more than a few months needed to prove that they were worth government funding.

It was only from the second stack, Balak thought to himself. Barely a three-meter drop. Balak could've landed that himself, much less with his hardsuit to help compensate.

In one motion, he pushed the door open and stepped into empty air.

Seven seconds passed.

The AT-12 Raider's cylinder shifted twice, letting loose four shots.

The pirate rifles fired a total of twelve shots, nine of them from the death-grip of a trigger finger that had yet to acknowledge that the body that controlled it had died. The Avenger was not one of those weapons. Unlike the Terminators, it had safety measures to ensure that death spasms didn't trigger bursts of friendly fire.

Three bodies hit the ground. Balak was not one of them.

_Idiots_, Balak thought. Any credit chits, jewelry, and personal effects stolen from the passengers would be small change compared to whatever the ship was actually carrying in its cargo hold. It was petty, unnecessary thievery gumming up what could've been a quick and profitable raid. Balak considered his response to be a lesson to the pirates. Technically, at least. He didn't expect that any of them would live to appreciate the lesson, but it was the thought that counted.

On one hand, Balak felt the need to deal with them for the sake of his what cover his journey had. On the other, he felt like killing them was a public service to the overall quality of piracy. It was the principle of the matter: letting idiots succeed through inaction was just as bad as actively encouraging them.

Or something like that. It didn't matter very much, seeing as three pirates were already dead on the deckplates, and more would soon follow.

One was missing the upper-half of his head, the second had a ragged hole blasted through his chest, and the third…the third had been a bit sloppy. It had taken two shots to kill him. He was simply dead, nothing spectacular about it.

Their bodies were still smoking as Balak reached down with his off hand and plucked the communication frequency from their omni-tools with his own.

"…_check on them. Those idiots probably just tuned into the wrong comm channel, but no sense getting careless over it_."

Balak's decision cemented itself further. Anyone willing to tolerate the continued presence of men stupid enough to be justifications on their own for a lapse in communications during an operation was just as much an idiot for keeping them around. Such men were liabilities for…

Balak glanced at their bodies. For pretty much exactly this reason. This ordeal would be a learning experience for the pirate commander. Again, technically, had Balak not fully intended to kill him, too.

After a few seconds of his omni-tool chewing through junk data, Balak almost laughed aloud. The pirates were smart enough to have IFF codes built into their weapons and tech, but dumb enough not to keep them buried under even entry-level cyber defenses. He had the locations and movement of every pirate aboard the ship, at least every minute when they checked in with a radar 'ping' on his HUD.

Talented amateurs, then. That changed things, at least slightly. They were more dangerous than experienced idiots by a fair stretch, at least in this situation. Not as well equipped as Eclipse mercenaries, maybe, but reasonably well funded and lucky enough to have hit enough soft-targets to gain some experience. Not lucky enough to have hit ships with any real resistance, most likely.

Fighting well-trained opposition was as different from fighting low-rent guards and armed passengers as night was from day. What these pirates had was 'experience' that screwed them in the long run: fight opponents like that for too long, and you learn to fight them. And by that point, anyone even remotely skilled could take you apart like a reverse jigsaw puzzle.

Five new targets moved down the hall adjacent to him, pausing at a door that connected to the cargo bay. That gave him seconds, at most, to find cover and prepare himself for the inevitable attack. Finding cover was a priority, followed by-

Finding cover. Balak actually chuckled at the thought.

He clipped his Raider to his hip for a moment. Then, with a quick flick of his boot, he flipped a fallen pirate rifle into his hands. An equally casual flick of his hand across the weapon and his omni-tool flashed. Red warning lights immediately began to flicker on the weapon's displays and Balak lobbed the rifle across the hall. It clattered to the deck in front of the door just as it began to cycle open. By then, Balak's Raider was already back in his hands.

One of the pirates had quick enough reflexes to let out a curse. The others could do nothing but widen their eyes as the rifle let out a terrible electronic scream and detonated in a flare of blue fire and deadly shrapnel.

Balak walked past them, pausing only to put a Raider shell into the sternum of the only one who still groaned.

The others already had their bodies shredded to confetti. He noted with mild approval as all of the IFF signals winked out on his HUD, presumably as the pirates shifted to secondary codes to ensure that he couldn't use the information he had. He still had their last known locations, at least. A quick check confirmed that the secondary codes weren't transmitted to omni-tools attached to dead limbs.

The pirates were armed with state-of-the-art weaponry. Balak was one man with a shotgun. Many an action flick across multiple species had been written with this exact premise, but what Balak lacked in one-liners, he made up with dozens of tricks hidden up his sleeve. Overloading the grenade module of an assault rifle was one of the simplest. It didn't even require any of the _really_ special tech embedded in his armor and omni-tool.

An experienced STG operative would've taken a more indirect route for dispatching the pirates. The loading mechs might not have had weapons, but they were strong enough to break limbs if allowed within arm's reach. A few dozen of them funneled towards the pirates would've been a good deterrent to cut and run. Sending out a fake reactor-overload signal from engineering would've worked, too, and without the need to take any more lives.

Balak wasn't that good, unfortunately for the pirates. But mostly, he simply wasn't that patient.

* * *

**_Codex - Technology - Drones: Spider Automated Defense__ Turret_**

_The Spider ADT was first seen in widespread use by GDI forces during the Verge War. It was initially provided largely to mechanized and special operations units, but became available for requisition by other units once it was formally adopted by the board of directors. With its rapid deployment and recovery times, internal power plant, and different weapon configuration, it gained its own niche in the GDI arsenal. Fast-moving mechanized units used Spiders as portable defenses for temporary bases where more traditional defense turrets would have been impractical. Special operations units discovered that with the SAM configuration of the Spider to surround heavily-fortified Hegemony positions, seizing control of the airspace without needing any more than a company's worth of soldiers. _

_The Spider was not without its share of weaknesses, however. The internal power plant limited the size of its guns, rendering the Spider useless as permanent base defenses if more traditional turrets were available. Its kinetic barriers are similarly weak to minimize power requirements, and its armor is vulnerable to even the most basic man-portable anti-vehicle weaponry. Inversely, it has a very strong energy signature, making it very difficult to conceal from anything but the naked eye. _

_Though it can also be configured with twin-linked railguns or mass accelerators, the Spider is much more suitable for combating aircraft than infantry. The sensor suite's VI cannot immediately prioritize an enemy soldier with, say, a rocket launcher, as a higher potential threat than another with an assault rifle. Once said launcher has been fired, it will register as the threat that it is, but given the previously mentioned weaknesses in barriers and armor, the most basic man-portable anti-vehicle weapons can destroy it with minimal effort._

* * *

**A/N: Oh, hello, retcons. How are you today?**

**In a realization that made me nearly headdesk my way to a concussion, I realized that I could solve the issues of establishing Mitchell's seniority on the battlefield by just giving him the rank of Commander, which can basically trump everything short of a General or a Director in the C&C universe as required. Eventually I'll get around to modifying previous chapters to suit the change, but until then, it's not _too_ big of a retcon. **

**This chapter took an ungodly long time in large part due to how rewritten it is. I wrote it, scrapped it, rewrote it, shuffled it around, realized parts from it should come later and parts I'd planned for later should happen now and _gnaaaa_**

**Point is, it took far more time than it ought to have, but maybe this'll prevent similar things from happening in the future. This chapter is mostly about setting things up for next chapter, and if I keep the next chapter in roughly the state I plan it to be, hoo-boy. **

**We spent a disproportionate amount of time with Balak in this one, but I felt like it was rather important to give him sufficient screen-time (or page-time, whatever) before he showed up in more significant events. As was pointed out to me, his reason for the whole Terra Nova asteroid-drop was the Hegemony facing _economic and political marginalization_ by the Systems Alliance in Citadel space, which is laughably minor compared to being invaded by GDI. **

**Regardless, next chapter we return to the final stages of siege prep on both sides. Pretty much every character thus far is going to get screen-time, if all goes according to plan. And then violence. Lots and lots of violence.  
**

**For now, R&R, anon accepted as usual. **


End file.
